


don't paint wonderful lies on me (that wash away)

by codevassie



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxious Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Discussions of death, Grief/Mourning, Halloween!, Innuendo, Lonely Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Remus' toilet and sex talk, Shakespeare Spoilers, Suicide mention, is that a Beetlejuice reference?, murder mention, neither take place in the story, panic attacks mention, previous character death, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 47,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25811149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codevassie/pseuds/codevassie
Summary: Since their writing manifested, Roman and Virgil got along well as soulmates. Roman can’t see why Virgil would stop writing, but he had.Virgil, on the other hand, couldn’t write back if he tried. A soulbond requires a living connection, and, well, Virgil’s not living anymore.What will happen when Roman stumbles on a haunted house, Virgil finds himself faced with a living person for the first time in two years, and a soulbond reconnects?Gosh, Virgil wasn’t even supposed to be dead in the first place.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 316
Kudos: 509
Collections: Storytime! 2020





	1. a hello and a goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Another Place by Bastille

Virgil didn't have a problem talking to his soulmate. Everything else in life–that was his problem. Overbearing parents. Difficult classes. Unable to grow out of his fears like his peers did. The dark, loud noises, driving a car. He was practically scared of his own shadow.

Life was out to get him. Turns out the opposite was too.

Virgil had never been scared of his soulmate though. From the first time red ink showed up on his skin, he had been nearly bursting in his excitement. Before, every thought had been  _ what if they don't like me? what if I say the wrong thing? what if they don't write to me? _

With Red's first words to him,  _ Greetings soul that my soul finds beautiful!  _ in large, first grade block lettering, Virgil had immediately reached for his own pen, setting to work without even thinking.

_ Hello. You talk funny. _

It wasn't the best introduction. But it paved the path for Purple and Red, complete with rude quips, witty nicknames, long anecdotes, crude doodles, and scratchy song lyrics. 

He learned later that Red had looked up the spelling of that first message just for him. That greetings was a thing his cousin said when they played prince and dragon, and beautiful was the biggest bestest word he could think to describe their soulmate.

They were in high school when Red had told him that. By then, they knew that both of them were guys, that Red lived two hours away, that they were both far from ready to meet, but were happy sharing anything and everything with each other despite it.

Except their names.

That was going to be special.

Virgil had fantasized about it on more than the occasional night, trying to distract himself from shadows in his room and lurking due dates – far enough away that he really shouldn't have been worrying about them. Their names, once they decided to meet, would be their first words to each other. 

Red would draw a crown on his cheek bone. Virgil would draw a lightning bolt on the one opposite. Then, wherever they decided to meet, they would see the symbols, they would approach, Virgil trying to keep himself from running, sprinting once he saw him, saw his Red, and they would stop in front of each other.

"Virgil," he would breathe, unable to wait. Unless Red got there first–he was always so dramatic, always so eager to be the loudest, proudest damn person in the room. At least, that's what Virgil had gotten from his large lettering and exciting stories and overall personality.

Red would look into his eyes, smiling like the sun, purple and red on his cheeks, like they'd always been there, birthmarks that would never fade. He'd say–

Well, Virgil didn’t know what he’d say. That's where the fantasies had to stop. It was a surprise, after all. Still, whenever he let himself imagine it he’d sigh in disappointment.

Virgil had never questioned himself with Red. They'd gotten into plenty of fights, and Red had taught Virgil his fair share of life lessons, turning all his thoughts inside out. There were doubts and fears and, yeah, questions, but he never doubted his soulmate, never feared their bond, never questioned if this all really was for him.

The system was flawed, but Virgil didn't mind getting stuck with Red. He loved him.

That was a whole revelation on its own. Virgil didn't think he'd ever loved someone before–not like this. Not like he loved Red.

That was scary, but Red still didn't scare him. Love scared him, but not enough to make him run away.

He'd never run away from Red. He couldn't stand thinking of leaving those marks behind, never looking at his arms, never writing back. 

Writing to Red was his escape from the real fears, the real worries. From crushing schoolwork. From overprotective parents. From uncaring friends. It was the only escape he ever needed.

It wasn't the only one he got.

Death was out to get him, after all.

-/-

Roman fell in love easily. Some perceived this as a flaw, but Roman liked to think it was living life. You steal some hearts, your heart gets stolen; you break some hearts, your heart gets broken. But, in there, there's something real. Your heart can’t scream unless it sings first. Sings so high that the glassy heart shatters into a million pieces. 

Roman fell in love with his soulmate as soon as they'd replied. They'd said he talked funny. He was indignant at that, but his heart couldn't have been beating more wildly. They were there. They were real. And they were writing to him.

They were writing to  _ him _ .

Yeah, who else would they be writing to? Roman asked himself that a lot over the years, but it never stopped him from thinking it. Someone was out there, writing to  _ him _ of all people. How had he gotten so lucky?

98% of the population was that lucky. Roman didn't ask for logic. He was  _ Roman _ . 

But Purple was out there, with his angsty song lyrics and sarcastic remarks and three AM thoughts. He was out there. Real and alive.

His heart sang a joyful tune. It got louder every year, higher every year. They were both graduating high school and, during the long, boring ceremony, Purple drew a little heart on his wrist. Just to show he was there when Roman was going out of his mind sitting in one place. 

He couldn't imagine being more in love.

So, of course, that's when it shattered.

After the ceremony, Roman wrote back a quick  _ Thanks  _ next to the heart, complete with his own little red heart beside it, before pocketing his pen and accepting roses from his grandma. When he and his family got in the car to go to a restaurant afterwards, he checked for a reply, but none was there.

He didn't think anything of it then. Purple must have been busy. Roman hadn't thought that heart would be his last mark.

Roman grew worried by the end of the day. He grew frantic by the end of the week. Months went by, constantly scribbling, asking what was wrong, what he could do to help, with no reply.

A year in and Roman accepted he wouldn't be getting one again. 

He was gone off to university by then, ending his first year of it in the next town's theater program. He was doing well for himself. Good grades. A speaking role in his freshman performance. The upperclassmen had taken a liking to him, coaching him on his technique and saying he'd have the lead by his third show. 

It was all great, except one thing. There was a hole in his life, and he knew exactly what fit in it. Or was supposed to fit in it. 

He wondered after Purple constantly. Was he alright? Why had he stopped replying? Did he grow sick of Roman? Had he gotten actually sick? Injured? Or maybe he had di–

Roman stopped himself. He always stopped himself. That was the one thing he couldn't bring himself to think. Of all the possibilities, of all the harsh realities that could have been his soulmate leaving him, none of them could end with him being taken away.

Maybe the universe realized it had made a mistake. Maybe neither of their messages were getting through. Some divine force had taken a look at them and gone "Well, that was a mistake" and poof, no more soulbond.

Some part of Roman thought that might have been the most merciful scenario. Purple hadn't left him, nor would he have been injured or… the other thing. Sure, Roman was destined for no one. Sure, there wasn't someone out there for  _ him _ . Sure, Roman would never see that magical pull of ink against his skin again.

But Purple would be alright. And he wouldn't hate Roman. And maybe one day they could still meet.

Yes, that seemed like the best scenario. Could the universe take back soulbonds?

-/-

Virgil knew this was bullshit from the moment he opened his eyes. It didn't take a grim reaper to lay down the rules for him.

"Hello," the reaper adjusted his glasses, "I'm afraid this is going to be rather difficult to explain, so I suggest you wake up a little and try to acclimate yourself to your new processes."

"Holy shit," Virgil sat up, knowing somehow immediately. "I'm dead."

"Indeed you are," the guy said, lip curling slightly in distaste. He'd probably been expecting to break the news. Not the type to like going off script. "Would you like a moment?"

"A moment for what?" Virgil asked, lifting a brow. "I already get that I'm dead."

"Ah, yes, but there is one other thing that you should know, and I'm hesitant to tell you as humans are particularly fragile at this stage. Do you need a second to process the situation? Perhaps I can be of help. You have shed your mortal life and now must leave behind everything you know for an existence against eternity. Does that assist in the matter?"

Virgil's eyes grew wide. Okay okay,  _ no _ . That did not help.

"I see," the guy said, taking in Virgil's stock-still figure. "I believe I have made things worse."

"Logan, don't you think you could have been gentler with the kiddo?" another voice rang through the room, tinkling like a bell. 

"I simply made him aware of his situation. If we were to present our case to him before he has processed his new existence then he could become overwhelmed and unable to be reasoned with."

"Lo, he's already overwhelmed."

There was a pause, then the guy, Logan, said, "I see."

Virgil watched the two with wide eyes, trying not to look at the shadows, trying not to think of Logan's words from before, the big Dead thing. The new person, smiling gently at him, approached slowly, kneeling down beside him.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice smooth and nice. "Are you doing okay? I know this whole thing can be a little…" he trailed off, as if in search of an accurate description. Even without any descriptors, Virgil would have to agree.

And, despite his throat dry as parchment, he swallowed and nodded his head. "Fine," he said. "Just a little…" he let that trail off too. The guy just nodded his head back, giving a sympathetic smile. 

"Well, I'm Patton," he said, then gestured back to the other guy. "And that's Logan." 

"Are you dead too?" Virgil asked, and, oh god, that word felt like sandpaper. He was– He was really–

"In a sense," Patton responded. "We're grim reapers. It's like. Well, we work for Death."

“You work for…” Virgil said, gears turning. He looked up with hope. “Does that mean- Maybe you can, I don’t know, take it back or something?”

The pitying look Patton sent his way did not bode well. But there was something else there too–eyes shifting and lips quirking into an uncomfortable grimace. There was something he didn’t want to say. “Oh, champ,” Patton did say, voice soothing, eyes sad.

Virgil shook his head, frustration rearing up. “You have to be able to do something. Or, if not you, what about Death? He can take it back, right?”

“Are you, how they say,” Logan cut in, pulling out a stack of–were those index cards? He flipped through them before displaying the words on one. “Asking to see our manager?”

“How did you have a card for that…” Patton mumbled, looking utterly confused. Much like Virgil, but he moved on faster, clenching his fists.

“Yes,” he said, feeling like a middle aged white woman named Susan. “I would like to talk to your manager, please.”

At least he said please. Unlike some people.  _ Susan _ .

“Kiddo, even if we could get Death here, they can’t take it back either. They’re Death. Not Life,” Patton explained carefully, and he was so considerate it didn’t even feel like what it was–defusing the time bomb that was Virgil’s accelerating anger. He didn’t even know where it all came from.

“Then how do I get in contact with Life?” Virgil asked, desperate. There was that pitying look again–this time from both Patton and Logan. He shook his head, feeling unstable. “ _ Please _ . This can’t be it. I can’t be- I  _ can’t- _ ”

Patton exchanged a glance with Logan and they communicated something silently. Virgil couldn’t bring himself to think, though–to figure out what it was they were saying. He stared at the wall across from him, limbs going still, heart too steady. Or was that an illusion? Did his heart even beat anymore? 

“There… There is one last thing we need to talk about. But we can keep it for when you’re ready. How are you feeling there, kiddo?” He went to place a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, slow and careful, very very careful, like Virgil was made of glass and the slightest touch would shatter him. He decided not to move away, and Patton’s hand made contact, skin as cold as- well, as cold as the dead.

“What?” Virgil asked hollowly. “What is it?”

Patton looked afraid, and, seeing this, something in Virgil’s ears popped. He stopped hearing everything through a tunnel. The world felt less surreal now. It felt solid. The colors were less bright, shadows digging into his vision, but not unnaturally. Virgil always saw shadows.

He was afraid of shadows, of the dark. His fears were always following.

Patton looked back at Logan again, as if searching for help, but then decided against it. Whatever he wanted to tell him, he wanted to tell him himself.

He turned back to Virgil, determination in his eyes. Virgil waited, dread creeping in with the shadows, holding his breath back like a hostage. Patton didn’t look like the kind of guy who did ‘serious’ very often, but he was doing it now.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” he said, shoulders deflating a bit. Patton took in a breath to steady himself.

“But we did… actually… make a mistake.”

-/-

Roman couldn’t tell if it was makeup or not. It certainly wasn’t his own skin making the marks, but they were hardly the purple he was used to.

He scrutinized his appearance in the mirror of his dorm, just a few days into his sophomore year. He’d been about to take a shower, still half asleep, hair flying all over the place and hand raised to cover a yawn when he’d seen them. He’d stopped in front of the mirror, at first not able to comprehend what he was seeing, but the longer he stood there, the more awake he became until, finally, his brain decided on ‘yeah, this actually doesn’t make sense.’

It wasn’t the groggy mind of someone who just woke up; what Roman saw before him legit didn’t make sense. 

Two dark circles under his eyes. He never had trouble sleeping, and it was too early in the semester to have pulled any all-nighters. Plus, somehow the spots were too dark to be regular eye bags. It really looked like someone had come in the night and smudged dark eyeshadow on his face, or some high quality coal at the least. And no amount of burying his head in his pillow this morning had smeared it.

He rubbed at the marks. That didn’t smear it either. Strange.

Roman looked down at his hand. Nothing there either.

_ New soulmarks? _ his brain supplied, but the thought had him stopping cold. Roman didn’t think he could handle that–if the universe had assigned him a new soulmate. No one could replace Purple. He wouldn’t accept anyone else.

But, maybe, Purple’s color had changed? 

The idea filled him with a hope he didn’t know how to handle, and Roman desperately tried to stomp it down. He couldn’t think Purple would ever come back, for whatever reason he had left before. Still…it wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?

Before he could consult his head, his feet were taking him to his desk, snatching up the first pen he found. It was green, but, as soon as the ink touched his skin, it turned red. This wasn’t new: talking to his soulmate and not expecting a reply. He still wrote to his soulmate all the time–like mail Purple just wouldn’t receive.

On that thought alone, Roman wrote the first thing that came to mind.

_ Return To Sender _ he scrawled out.  _ If you’re there, please. _

That  _ please  _ could mean so many things. It did mean so many things.

_ Please reply. _

_ Please be safe. _

_ Please be okay. _

Roman used to plead them all over his skin, tears smearing his beautiful penmanship–something he’d worked on just for his soulmate. Purple deserved to have pretty things on his skin, and Roman couldn’t draw. In elementary, he’d fallen in love with the old cursive handbook his teacher kept in her library. As he’d grown older, he watched YouTube videos on making beautiful letters and different fonts. It was a craft, and one Purple would even compliment, with all his prickly attitude, often. 

But Roman couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t put that beautiful effort in when no one was on the other side. He couldn’t keep writing all his fears across his arms and legs, begging, pleading the universe to let Purple back in, to let  _ Roman  _ back in. 

He wondered how their connection severed.  _ Constantly _ . He always wondered.

Now, he wondered what had caused it to sever and come back in a different color. What must have happened for a change like that? Was Purple alright? Did he still call him Purple? Of course he still called him Purple; he’d always be Purple–unless Purple didn’t want to be Purple, then that was fine, but was this Purple?

Was this even Purple at all?

Roman went back to his bathroom mirror, examining the circles closer. There was something about them. Other than the fact that they were on his face, and they probably should not have been on his face–there was also something… off about them.

Roman felt like he was missing something he had no way of knowing. 

And like something was coming.

-/-

Death sucked, Virgil had decided early on. It was something he repeated to himself often.

“Death sucks!” he shouted to the empty house around him, a year and a half after the day he’d died. He’d been in this creepy-looking house, among these creepy-freaking shadows, for a  _ year and a half _ now. Not always alone, but usually.

Sometimes Patton or Logan visited. It was the guilt that brought them back, but, also, Virgil kind of hoped they were friends. He didn’t know. A year and a half of this, and Virgil still didn’t know. 

He hoped it wasn’t the guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to ask since it was too lonely here to risk their occasional visits, too quiet.

The quiet was probably the worst.

Virgil had ended up in some sort of abandoned house after he’d died, not that he’d remembered how. His memories of life were a bit fuzzy, if Virgil was honest. He remembered a lot of fear. The color red. The urge to look down at his arm?

Weird things to remember. He didn’t remember how he’d died at all though. Patton and Logan wouldn’t tell him. Apparently, it hadn’t been pretty.

But it’d been in this house, which was how he’d ended up there. He never saw his body. Apparently it had been collected before his ghost apparition soul thing had manifested. A part of Virgil was pretty grateful for that. He had too many nightmares as it was; he’d rather not add in his mangled corpse and glassy eyes. 

The two reapers didn’t keep him completely in the dark, however. They’d explained this all to him, and they were really honest about their so-called ‘mistake.’

_ “A mistake?” Virgil asked a year and a half ago, heart thumping. “What mistake? With me? Am I not supposed to be here after all?” _

_ Patton shared another look with Logan, and they really needed to stop that. It was getting on Virgil’s nerves. Why couldn’t they just tell him already? Just explain to him what was going on. _

_ “Yes,” Logan stepped forward. “Our mistake lies with who we took. It was not, in fact, supposed to be you.” _

_ Virgil blinked. He had asked, had been hoping, yet he hadn’t quite expected to be right. In no movie where the protagonist realized they were dead was it a mistake. Death was death _ – _ the end of the line _ –permanent _.  _

_ “But that does not change the facts now, I’m afraid,” Logan continued to explain, walking closer to where Virgil and Patton knelt. “You are dead, and that is not easily reversible.” _

_ “What?” Virgil shouted, jumping up. “Wait, so I’m not supposed to be dead, but you ended up making a mistake and now I have to stay this way? I’m supposed to just settle for being  _ dead _? There’s so much I still have to live for! I’m going to college in the fall! I’ve never been drunk or been kissed… I’ve never met my soulmate.” Virgil’s voice was slowing down, becoming raspier as he struggled to blink back what were definitely not tears in his eyes. “This isn’t fair. You can’t just-  _ Do this _ to me.” _

_ Patton looked like his heart had broken, and he wasn’t even the one that was recently, unrightfully, deceased. He made a distressed noise, but Virgil looked away, unable to handle it. It was  _ his  _ fault. His and Logan’s. He didn’t have any right. _

_ “Easily,” Logan said. Confused, Virgil looked up. _

_ “What?” _

_ “I said that death is not  _ easily  _ reversible,” Logan said. “It is not, however, impossible.” _

_ “Lo?” Patton asked, looking stricken. “You don’t mean…” _

_ “This is our mishap, Patton, and I think it would do well that we attempt to fix our mistakes.” _

_ “You can fix it?” Virgil gasped, then, quickly, put up his guard once more. “How?” _

_ “It’s… not as good as it sounds, kiddo,” Patton warned, biting at his lip. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” _

_ “He is not meant to be dead. If it were to work on any soul, there is a considerable chance that it would be his.” _

_ “But!” Patton protested. “It’s dangerous! It could hurt his soul forever. It could-” _

_ “It doesn’t matter,” Virgil said, cutting through their conversation. Patton looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, but Virgil turned back to Logan. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.” _

_ Logan, eyes taking on a satisfied glint, nodded. “Satisfactory.” _

_ “So,” Virgil said, ready to get started. “What do I need to do?” _

_ “You must wait.” _

_ This slowed Virgil down. “....wait?” he asked. _

_ Logan nodded. “Yes, wait.” _

_ “For how long?” _

_ “There, I’m afraid, is our variable.” _

_ Logan paused, pursing his lips in consideration of what to say, what to keep back. In the end, he seemed resigned. He must have settled on the truth. _

_ “It could be a week…” _

_ “Or it could be a decade.” _

Back in the present, Virgil sighed, getting no response from the walls. “Death really freaking sucks,” he mumbled, and moved on. Into the next room, Virgil let his incorporeal form creep the same floorboards, pass the same windows, fog the same mirrors and flicker the same lights. 

He felt as ghostly as they came and knew that was something he was supposed to fight against. Logan and Patton had warned against the fog that would entreat on his mind, shrouding memories of being alive and happy. He was supposed to shake it; he was supposed to focus really hard on those memories so he didn’t mess up everything.

Mess up everything and he’d get stuck as dead forever.

At one of the light fixtures he paused, focusing for a minute. Lo and behold, he was getting better at this because, somehow, he got the light to stay for a bit. There, he pulled up his arm, tugged back the sleeve, and, there, watched as another mark was finished.

Memories slotted back with effort, but Virgil managed. He smiled tightly down at the letters, the little note.

Red didn’t leave much anymore. He used to say a whole lot–at first, pretending like nothing was wrong, then asking if he was alright, then begging, so much begging, as if Virgil wouldn’t just pick up a pen if he could and write back.

Virgil still got all the marks Red drew for him, and, heartless he was, it tore his empty chest to pieces every time. Having no heart didn’t mean the dead couldn’t feel.

“Oh, Red…” Virgil said down at the new words, scrawled on the side of his arm, slanting a bit–nothing like Red used to write. His beautiful script was gone. Not the casual loops, not his exuberant calligraphy, remained. Now, Red wrote like it pained him, in tight, tiny letters.

_ Return To Sender. If you’re there, please. _

Against his better judgement, Virgil dug around in the pocket of his hoodie and found the only corporeal object he actively kept on him. It was the only reason he had worked so hard to have control, and even that had been for nothing.

Still, he thought maybe one day…

Uncapping the marker, an old graffitti pen he’d found in the corner of the parlor, Virgil poised it over translucent skin.

He stood there for five minutes, and, having let go of control, the light flickered over his arm, illuminating the red scribbles vaguely. Long and hard Virgil thought of words back to his soulmate. It had to be good, after one and a half years of nothing. If the pen was going to come away purple, it had to count.

But it was always the same thing. Every time Virgil tried, and failed, and tried again for lack of sanity–he always put the same thing. There was simply nothing else to say.

It was especially appropriate today, he thought.

_ I’m here. _

Two words. What else could Virgil do?

But the ink remained black.

-/-

Roman kept one eye on his arm through his entire shower, knowing he was going to be late to class. When he stepped out, steam fogging the mirror, he wiped it down and examined his entire body over.

No new marks. If he couldn’t bring himself to hope for a reply, why did he feel so let down?

Because he  _ had _ been hoping. Roman had been hoping that it had meant something, that these eye bags that still wouldn’t go away had something to do with Purple, and maybe if Roman tried one more time-

But he knew better than to hope. Silly, stupid, idiotic Roman and his senseless, hopeless dreams. He couldn’t help it. He was so hopeful even with no reason to be. He was whimsical, romantic, naive. Would he ever learn?

Roman looked at his own scrawl again and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’d never learn. He’d hope and hope until it destroyed him. 

He’d die of heartbreak because, as often as it broke, his heart was bound to give up one of these days.

And he was just working himself up at this point. Why did he insist on looking at his marks, alone without Purple’s to accompany them–his empty tan skin neverending around each red note? Why did he keep on trying?

He'd never been one to give up. Roman wished he would–it would save himself the pain of it all. But he couldn't let it go. 

Purple was out there, somewhere. And that little heart was not the last they would write to each other. 

Turning on the tap to a freezing cold stream, Roman scrubbed the red ink off, until it was draining away green down the sink, his heart longing to jump after. 

But no 8AM would wait for a twenty-year-old's heartache, so Roman kept it in, caged the poor organ, beaten and bruised, but not broken.

Once shattered, now crudely glued together in a mismatched mosaic, faulty of what it'd been before.

It'd been broken once. Roman refused to let it again. He held it in its cage, bubble-wrapped and surrounded by defensive spikes; iron lock and key, yet dangling from a cliff. Roman played a dangerous game–refusing to break, unable to back down.

Recipe for disaster.

But what could you do when you were Roman Prince?

-/-

Something Virgil missed: the sun

Something Virgil  _ never thought he'd miss _ : the sun.

Virgil had been pale even before he was a ghost. The sun was his enemy when he'd been alive because he burned easily and stunk really badly when he sweated. It also sucked as he refused to wear anything that wasn't black or various shades of grey. The only color he'd ever allowed on his person was the red and purple on his arms, and even those he hid. 

Virgil was proud of his soulmate, but the marks felt personal. He wanted them for himself.

Point was, Virgil had never been fond of the sun, even on a cool winter day. It hurt his eyes. It hurt his skin. It was annoying as fuck. In the light of day, people saw him and he saw them right back.

And, fuck, people annoyed him too.

So no. No sun. He liked the moon sometimes. Virgil really liked the stars. The rain and the clouds; snow, sleet, hail. 

He missed all of it these days, staring out through the windows. When you couldn't leave a house, anything outside was worth missing.

But, goddamnit, that sun.

Virgil was cold. All the damn time. His freaking ghost skin. Living in an empty house. Nothing made Virgil feel more dead than the cold.

He longed for the sticky feeling of sweat at his nape, the annoying shine of the sun in his eyes, the burn of red skin, the claustrophobia of black material absorbing heat. 

He wanted to go back to when he was little and, instead of burning, the sun gave him freckles. Virgil wanted to go back to rebellious tween years of leaving the house in bare feet, gritting his teeth against the scorching pavement. He wanted too many blankets tucked around him the night before second grade because his mom was still overprotective. He wanted days under an uncomfortable baseball cap because his dad was the coach, and he thought it'd be good bonding for the two of them. He wanted mornings of skipping class to hide in the playground of the neighborhood next to the high school, scribbling over his arms and forgetting all but his soulmate.

The cold was getting to him. Being dead, his hoodie didn’t do shit, nor did any of the odd tablecloths or tattered blankets he found in the linen closet. He piled them on, but it was a lot of work to keep his form so the cloth didn’t phase through. It wasn’t worth the effort, especially when it didn’t do anything in the first place.

And this was what happened when you were anxious and alone and dead. Too much thinking. 

Too much time on your hands. Alive, Virgil had often thought everything was too much. Having to do things to stay alive, thinking how everything can go wrong. Job to have money. School to get a degree. Shower to not stink. Food to not faint. Sleep to not faint. Medication to calm the fuck down and not faint.

Virgil had been quite prone to fainting in his life. 

Sometimes the heat had made him faint, but that had been more of a hydration issue than anything. Virgil used to hide away on hot summer days, something his parents disapproved of. The sun helped with the happy chemicals apparently. Virgil sort of agreed with them now, imagining the kind of rush walking out into the warm summer air would give him. Fainting wasn’t fun, but dozing, eyes blinking groggily as Virgil was lulled, enveloped in something so pleasant...

Gosh, death had really turned him into a longing mess. Missing and mourning a life minutely spent. He’d really done nothing with it, had he? Days on end curled under his blankets, afraid of the outside world. Shutting it all out with his blocky headphones and loud music. Hiding away behind online classes and closed lips and averted eyes.

He’d been content with his life, Virgil will admit. He’d taken comfort in all these little ways he’d learned to cope with his anxiety. He’d also thought it wouldn’t be cut so short.

Did he expect a long life? Maybe not super long. Maybe not into his elderly years with grandkids and grey hair and whatever else old people had. Virgil hadn’t expected… a lot. His future was a blurry thing, something he actually hated talking about. Definitely didn’t mean he’d  _ wanted  _ to die. 

The future was scary. The lack of one… was kind of depressing.

There wasn’t a whole lot to do in the house. Even if there was, though, Virgil wasn’t sure he’d have the energy to do any of it. Maybe that was just the state of being a ghost–wandering around, sighing, looking out windows and walking through walls. 

Virgil didn’t actually walk through walls all that often. It made him feel too much like a ghost. But all the rest was daily routine.

Stuck in a loop. Longing. Mourning. Missing something important that you couldn’t describe (life; it was life).

Because Virgil could get it back, his life, but what would even be left by the time that happened? It could take years. It could take a lifetime. Everyone he knew would be gone, and Virgil would be as alone as in death. 

Death was sort of a drag, Virgil decided, not for the first time. “Death sucks,” he mumbled, walking away from the window he’d been looking out for the better part of the day. The sun was setting. Where had time gone? 

As he made his way into the living room, however, he began to sense something was off. Virgil suddenly remembered his more human half–fight or flight–an instinct to hide away from the world. The front door creaked open, muffled steps making their way through. Time ground its gears around him, rooting Virgil back into reality. He must have been drifting for a while. Out the window, it was already dark.

Whispers greeted the bare living room from disembodied voices. This had to have been the worst part of death–when people came to the house.

It was said to be a haunted house. He supposed that wasn’t wrong, but it was still annoying. He’d barely done anything to gain that reputation, wanting nothing to do with the living unless it was to get his life back. He wished people weren’t so stupid–would hear  _ haunted house _ and turn the other way.

He supposed he was lucky they didn’t. While he still didn’t know any details, Virgil understood that they needed a living person to revive him. 

_ It’s okay _ , Virgil reassured himself, careful to keep it quiet.  _ They can’t see you. Just don’t make a sound and you don’t have to worry. Simple.  _

None of the ghost stories he’d read had prepared Virgil for the fact that he couldn’t see  _ them  _ either. 

It seemed unfair. He was already  _ dead _ –what was  _ one  _ advantage to him? Apparently, too much. The living couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see the living. Fuck equal exchange or whatever bullshit had made  _ that  _ happen. Virgil was at just as much a disadvantage. 

All Virgil had on his side was sound and not even all of it. His footsteps, banging cabinets, clapping his hands– those sounds all got through, but words were tricky. He could only hear snippets of living voices, and he assumed the same went for him. It was the most random snippets that got through, though. 

“What the heckity heck five abs and one pec?”

…….Okay, even with Virgil’s limitations here, he doubted anyone was supposed to understand that.

Virgil had no interest in sticking around for whatever Ouija board shit was about to go on, so, gauging carefully where the steps and sketchy mumbling was coming from, Virgil crept on the outside of the room towards the stairs.

_ No sound no sound _ , Virgil silently pleaded his feet and the squeaky floorboards. With nothing to do in the house but mope, he was pretty knowledgeable of the noisiest parts of the house. Still, he was cautious.  _ Just get upstairs and hopefully they’ll leave the second story alone because this house is freaking old and close to collapsing seriously- _

Virgil wasn’t sure why his footsteps made noise because he weighed nothing. Weighing nothing, however, made traversing the house a lot safer. In places that were rotted and damaged, Virgil could brisk over them with creaking instead of collapse. The stairs were easy for him, though he couldn’t control the smallest of noises he made as he followed them up. He had almost made it to the top with the intruders none the wiser.

Which made it absolute bullshit when he tripped on one of the steps, making the loudest goddamn noise of his life as he fell down down down… all the way to the bottom. He heard shouts, rumbling footsteps growing… closer?

What the hell? Haunted house! Did  _ no one _ get the memo?

Virgil stayed where he was, staring dejectedly at the ceiling, reevaluating his death and life and entire existence until the pounding came close. His blood was pumping–metaphorical blood into a metaphorical heart–but he stayed still, breathing–metaphorical breathing into metaphorical lungs through metaphorical clenched teeth–quietly.

“What the-- that?! --huge noi--shit--” a disjointed voice breezed past Virgil’s breathing from above. It was so close, and he couldn’t help flinching. He stayed as still as he could, frightened out of his mind. Ironic–the living scaring the dead.

“Breathing?” another voice asked, and the shuffling around him went quiet. Virgil realized the only sound he could hear was breathing–his breathing.

He gulped in, shaking as he held his breath. Virgil recognized the panic swelling up in him, a distant memory of life.

There was more mumbling, but Virgil wasn’t able to make out any more words. His head was beginning to go fuzzy, though, heart pumping like it really was reacting to his racing thoughts and fear, like Virgil was able to react to lack of oxygen or heart palpitations anymore. 

“Hm, so it’s haunted,” the same voice said, sounding way too casual for the statement. Virgil stared at the ceiling, waiting. The voices were coming easier, maybe because they were closer.

“This is nuts,” a new voice said. He sounded about as freaked as Virgil was, trying to hide it under some sort of bravado like Virgil would his cynicism–if anyone was around to witness his ghostly apparition pinned to the floor. Virgil didn’t know anyone but Patton and Logan these days however, and they certainly weren’t there.

“Let’s go upstairs,” the casual one said. “Those stairs look totally safe.”

“You’re nuts too,” the new voice decided. The first guy laughed, a cackling sort of glee. Virgil heard creaking and hoped that was the sound of them moving away, gaining some common freaking sense. “Remus, no-”

Of course not. The sounds were going towards the stairs.

“Wait!” Virgil blurted, words coming in a gust as he released his unneeded breath. The creaking stopped.

“Was that-”

“No. Definitely not.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Seriously?”

The creaking went in the other direction. The voices became disjointed again, fainter as they moved away. Virgil continued to lay on the floor.

When he heard them disappear from where they’d come, he almost disappeared through the floorboards, sagging in relief. Virgil laid there for a long while after.

-/-

Leading into the weekend, Roman wasn't surprised to hear Remus and Janus wanted to do something stupid.

Despite having many friends, events, and work to attend to, Roman often found himself roped into his brother's shenanigans–which often occurred in the dead of night and in places they were not supposed to be. It was only a matter of time until Remus caught wind of their college town's haunted house. 

It was no local hot spot or tourist attraction. Not a Halloween gimmick or local legend. Apparently, there was a history of deaths in the place, and it was barred from the public for viewing, complete with a hefty padlock and large 'No Trespassing' sign on the front door.

Roman had heard of it before, passing it off as something he'd eventually learn in detail from his brother one of these days. He'd figured it a tall tale, made to spook the kids around town from going near the dangerous looking house–a tale spun for so long that everyone in town had grown to believe it. 

Remus and Janus had done their research though.

There were deaths stretching back to the eighteenth century. Some were bloody and gruesome. Some had long stories full of betrayal and lies. Some remained mysterious–dead bodies found without identity, or sudden murders, the killer pleading mad every time. People had died by gun, by knife, by rope, by lead pipe and candlestick.

It was all true. Roman accepted this without a doubt. While his brother was skilled at weaving his tales, when his curiosity drew him to something, Remus wouldn't come out until he had the answers.

And Janus, Remus' best friend, was ironically set on finding the truth in circumstances such as these. Roman says ironically, of course, because Janus was the biggest liar he knew–more chronically so than actually good at it.

Janus would have made a great investigative reporter if he wasn't set on law. 

So their research was solid. Which meant Roman was meant to step foot in a house that was falling apart at their feet where at least fifty people had died. 

"How do you always manage to rope me into these situations?" Roman asked as the three of them approached the house. Remus was practically jumping out of his skin in his excitement, which had gone up tenfold when they'd jumped the fence in the back (given this was state owned property that was insistent on keeping down its chronic death rate through all barbed wire means). Janus looked bored, clicking his flashlight by his side as his eyes slid over the decrepit building. 

“You’re here of your own free will,” Janus pointed out, and Roman couldn’t tell if it was the truth or not. He squinted at the man, but Janus kept walking. Roman huffed.

“You guys don’t actually expect to see any ghosts, do you?”

“Maybe not,” Remus said, turning to face him and walking backward. “But if there’s a history of deaths, maybe we’ll run into a murderer!”

“What?” Roman practically shouted, stopping dead in his tracks. “Do you  _ want  _ to die?”

Remus shrugged. Janus finally stopped and turned around. “Would you rather wait outside? I’m sure you could fight off a killer on your own.” The sarcasm dripped from Janus’ lips.

Roman shuddered. "Let's just go in."

They managed to pry open one of the back windows, cemented shut by age and paint, but not locked. It took Remus ten minutes to cut his way through the creases around the window with his dorm key, which he tossed over his shoulder when finished.

"We're in," he announced, using a hushed hacker voice, but one that was way too demented to be taken seriously. Roman went and fetched the key before Remus had to pay for another lost one. 

They all filed in, scrunched from their noses to their knees as they shimmied through the tight squeeze. By the time Roman landed on his feet, old floorboards squeaking underneath him, Remus and Janus were dusting themselves and looking around.

"Certainly looks abandoned," Roman remarked, and his brother looked his way, eyes alight.

"But does it look haunted?"

"Does it look like a hideout for a murderer?" Janus asked dully. Remus didn't seem to take the sarcasm at face value.

"Do you think I could get them to autograph something if we meet one?" he asked, then dug through his pockets for anything he had on his person. Of course he had a pen–most people carried one. The other items were the furthest from normal you could get though.

So, pretty normal for his brother.

An acorn. A can of silly string. A glass eye. A CD without its case. Half of a flip phone. A dream catcher. Chapstick, and that would be normal if not for the fact that once Remus opened the cap a caterpillar crawled out. Roman prayed his brother hadn't brought any deodorant with him.

The deodorant thing, despite Roman using every birthday candle wish since they were eleven to rid of it, had not yet been a phase. Maybe Remus had been wishing the exact opposite every year and, since they shared a cake, they cancelled each other out. 

"Oh, where did you get yen from?" Janus asked, picking one of the objects up with interest from the floor. 

"There was this guy who wouldn't stop eyeing me from across the library, so naturally I walked up to him cause I figured he was down to fuck-"

"Remus!"

"But the thing was, he actually wanted something  _ way _ kinkier and I was like nosirie I am not that kind of man. So he takes out this flier and it's got all these happy people and it talked about life after death and I'm like woah dude I said I wasn't interested. He shrugs and walks away, but man was that a nice ass and-"

"Wait, did you hit on one of the Mormons that visits campus?"

"Always said the religious ones were the kinkiest-"

" _ Remus _ ."

"Anyway, turns out the flier he gave me had a coupon attached! So I went to the pizza place it advertised and, let me tell you, something was  _ not _ right with the pizza I got. I shat for  _ hours _ -"

" _ Please _ just get on with it," Roman sighed, rubbing at his eyes. Remus nodded, holding up a placating hand.

"Don't worry, Ro Ro. Almost there," he said. "So that night I'm on the shitter and I  _ swear _ I hear Janus ask what the fuck was taking so long- you know, like he  _ does _ ." 

"I  _ was _ , Remus."

"But it wasn't Jan!"

"It was."

"It was a fucking ghost. And that's what reminded me about this place. So I take off to the library as soon as my ass-beating shits are over-"

" _ Gross _ ."

"And I found it under a table in the library at 3am!"

"What."

"Why did you insist on going at 3am, Remus?" Janus asked, sounding more used to this shit than Roman, who's been putting up with it since the womb.

"The library's not even  _ open _ at 3am," Roman hissed. 

Remus just shrugged, spinning on his heels to start his survey of the house. Recognizing a lost cause, Roman followed suit.

The house was… definitely abandoned. 

The wallpaper was peeling and the floor was caked in dust. When Roman lifted a foot, floorboards creaking noisily, there was a fine shaped footprint left behind. The banister to the stairs was decaying and some of the windows were boarded up. Surprisingly, the graffiti was minimal, but that might have had to do with the fact that most people were afraid to even approach the building–let alone come in.

It was strange for a college town to not find liquor bottles and fast food wrappers around. No signs of past parties. Everyone in town seemed to get the memo.

Except him and the two idiots he was with. Roman supposed that made him an idiot by proximity, but fuck logic. 

They had climbed in through the dining room, it looked like–though the room had no furniture to attest that. There was a door where he could look into the kitchen, however, and a rough chandelier in the center. So Roman decided it was a dining room. When he followed the other two into the next room–a door that was not into the kitchen–he decided they were in a living room of sorts. 

A fireplace stood proud on one wall and the front door was on the other end, boarded up and sad-looking. There was a staircase not too far from the entryway, leading up into unknown parts that probably just contained bedrooms. This room was just as bare of furniture, though the graffiti was a bit more plentiful. The dust was equal to that they’d already seen, building up mostly on window sills and the mantle.

"Oh, check this out!" Remus exclaimed suddenly, romping over across the room like he owned the place. He shifted through an assortment of items that laid in the corner, emerging with some sort of decayed doll.

"What the heckity heck fives abs and one pec?" Roman yelped, the familiar saying slipping through. Remus barked a laugh, and Janus looked at him funny.

"I'm sorry?" Janus asked.

"It's um," Roman attempted to explain, face going hot. "Something I say-" He was saved from that explanation, however, as a sudden crash sounded from across the room. They all jumped up, spinning towards the noise.

Remus, of course, was the first into action, running towards the stairs where the noise had come from. Roman reluctantly followed when Janus went after. 

As they stood near the steps, Remus loudly vocalizing his excitement, Janus managed to shush him with one question. "Is that breathing?" 

They all fell quiet. Roman was horrified to realize Janus was right. There was the sound of loud breathing, and it wasn't coming from any of them. 

"Hm, so it's haunted," Janus said, a considering finger tapping his chin. Roman was scanning the floor, trying to really figure out where the noise was coming from.

"This is nuts," he breathed. There was a ghost. Right there at their feet. How-

Wait, why at their feet? Kid ghost?? Oh God, kid ghosts were always the creepiest.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Janus continued, and he couldn’t be serious. Was he serious? “Those stairs look totally safe.”

“You’re nuts too,” Roman declared, jutting a finger in his direction. When Remus made a move toward the stairs, the finger swiveled on him. “Remus, no-”

“Wait!” a disembodied voice echoed throughout the room. It sounded like it was screaming through a tunnel, fizzing in like an old radio. They all froze–even Remus.

“Was that-” Remus began, but Janus shook his head. Roman wasn’t having any of it.

He was the first back to the dining room, surprised when the other two actually followed. Feeling gracious, he let Janus out first. “Out of here,” he muttered under his breath as he stuck his tongue out at his brother, climbing through himself.

Roman was greeted with fresh air, cleaning his lungs of all the dust he’d inhaled, and a warm sun, setting across the trees.

In his distraction, Roman didn’t feel when his wallet slipped from his pocket as he stepped out the window.

-/-

Virgil had been hiding out upstairs for the remainder of the day, relieved the intruders had gone so quickly. Despite the fact they couldn’t actually see or touch Virgil, new people around had always scared him. 

He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, since being dead really put a damper on that sort of thing, but a while later Virgil finally emerged. He felt light again, transparent–none of the floorboards creaked as he descended the stairs. When he rounded into the living room, however, his resulting gasp wasn’t at all silent.

“Holy shit, Pat!” he gasped, leaning on the wall. Forgetting he wasn’t physical, Virgil phased right through, crashing to his knees on the floor. “Fuuuck,” he hissed through his teeth. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt him. But damn was it embarrassing… and annoying.

“Oh, kiddo! Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you,” Patton said, rushing forward. Virgil looked up just in time to see him stash something behind his back, and he lifted a brow in question.

“Whatcha got there?”

Patton stopped about two feet away. “Uuummm, what?” he squeaked, faux innocent. Virgil rolled his eyes.

“You put something behind your back,” he explained, then squinted, pieces falling into place. “Are you hiding something?”

“No!” Patton exclaimed, bringing forward his hands–empty–to wave in front of him. “Why would I be hiding something?”

“I know you can make things disappear. There was definitely something in your hand before,” Virgil said. Why would Patton be hiding something from him? Sure, there was a lot of things he wasn’t allowed to tell Virgil–official Reaper business and all–but why would he bring anything like that there?

“Oh, you got me,” Patton laughed uneasily. He put his hand back and came out with a muffin. Virgil pulled a disbelieving face. “I brought you a muffin! But then I remembered you can’t actually eat and…”

But Virgil was already shaking his head. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me, Pat. Just don’t lie.”

Patton blinked, for a second looking like he was going to cry. Virgil was ready to jump up, ramble an uncertain apology and promise anything he wanted–just  _ don’t cry _ . But Patton was nodding his head, freezing Virgil in place.

“You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t lie.”

Virgil scrambled to his feet, confused how he should take this sudden change in emotion. “Hey, hey, dude. It’s okay. I know Reaper stuff means you can’t tell me a lot.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I should lie,” Patton said, sniffling. He hadn’t cried yet, but this might have been worse–watching him hold it in. 

“Okay, then just tell me next time?” Virgil asked. “All you gotta say is you can’t tell. No big deal, alright?”

“Alright,” Patton nodded, eyes shining. Virgil felt like he was in an exploding nuclear base, rushing from one end to the other to find the best way to shut it down. Or like that Spongebob episode where all the little Spongebobs in his head were screaming and running around while papers flew everywhere and their office was on fire.

Holding that whole mess in, he gave Patton a thin-lipped smile. “So… how are things?”

Truth be told, he’d seen Patton on the verge of tears before. He’d seen the guy straight up cry more times than he could count. One, that didn’t mean he was any better at taking care of it.

Two, this one had come out of nowhere. Was... Patton alright?

Patton nodded miserably. “Things are alright,” he mumbled. Another lie. Virgil would let it slide. He could tell the lie was more for Patton’s own sake than anything.

“Alright,” Virgil nodded. “Do anything fun lately?” he asked, scrambling for normalcy–or comfort? Sometimes the best way to comfort someone was to distract them, right?

“Reaped an old lady downtown this morning,” he said, discreetly wiping away a tear. “She was so nice.”

Virgil might have guessed that was the source of his distraught if not for the fact that Patton was really used to his job. Once, Patton had told him that he  _ loved  _ his job, much to Virgil’s bafflement.

_ “Helping people pass on is a kindness few get to experience. To leave a soul past their prime–that’s the real sadness.” _

“I’m sure she lived a nice life,” Virgil agreed. Patton smiled.

For the rest of Patton’s visit, they talked about inconsequential things–life and death. And Virgil kind of enjoyed it.

He pushed the whole confusing ordeal to the back of his mind. It probably wasn’t something he had to worry about anyway.

(He’d still worry, of course.)

-/-

Roman realized his mistake pretty early on. A guy couldn’t get too far without his wallet. He couldn’t drive; he couldn’t get into his dorm; he couldn’t buy anything from stores or from the school’s cafeteria. It was too bad that, by the time they got back, it was late.

Roman had his roommate let him in, and Remus and Janus took pity on him and bought dinner that night. Janus even showed up with an extra bagel to their 8AM the next morning–which Roman appreciated, even if his body was begging for caffeine. What he would give for a morning coffee…

After their class, Janus and Roman met up with Remus. He was waiting with an unopened Monster.

“I know how you get without caffeine, Ro,” Remus said, sliding the drink over. Roman never in his life had drunk an energy drink that early in the morning. But caffeine was caffeine.

“Thanks,” Roman said, too tired for any snarky remarks. He cracked it open and took a few long sips. “So, I need to go back to that house today. Anyone in?”

For a second, Remus looked excited, sitting up with a gleam in his eye. Janus, however, cleared his throat. “Remus, our project?”

“What?” Remus asked, of course, clueless. Roman knew his brother wasn’t dumb, but man, did he act like it sometimes. 

“Woah,” Roman said. “Semester just began. What do you mean project?”

“It’s a semester-long one, and Remus and I have to meet up with our group today to define roles and expectations. If I don’t attend, then how can I expect to take over leadership of the group?”

“And how am I supposed to slack on my work if Jan isn’t the leader,” Remus said, agreeing more than asking. Janus leveled him with a look.

“If you slack off, I will have your head worse than any other in that group. I can because you’re my friend, and you won’t sue.”

Remus just winked at Janus. Janus rolled his eyes and went back to Roman.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

On his own. In a haunted house. Where they had definitely heard a ghost yesterday.

“Nice,” Roman said, voice faint.

And so, once Remus and Janus had to take off for their meeting, Roman took a bus into town. Stepping up to the house, he had determined his fate.

“I’m going to die,” he said as he rounded the property. “I should have written a will.”

It was easier this time to jimmy open the window, but it was a lot harder to go in. Without the banter between him and the others, it was frighteningly silent. As he climbed through, he felt his arm catch on something and burn.

_ Shit, please don’t be tetanus. _

Once he’d gotten into the dining room, he took a look at the arm. Marked in red, though it was, thankfully none of it was blood. Among the soulmarks, there was nothing to show for the weird pain he’d experienced.

“Weird,” he breathed. He yanked the sleeve back down and looked up, finally letting himself take in the house for the second day in a row.

It was far more ominous alone. Roman took a quick scan of the room he was in, but, of course, he couldn’t be that lucky. He must have lost the wallet further into the house.

“Hey, ghost?” he yelled into the space. “I’m just here looking for my wallet. Don’t kill me, okay?”

The house replied with silence. Roman nodded, not feeling better in the slightest, and moved out of the dining area.

The living room, thankfully, was the same as yesterday. Furnitureless and dusty. Finding his wallet would be easy on a floor so bare.

It should have been easy.

“Where the heck…?” Roman mumbled to himself on his seventh lap around the room. On his fourth, he’d searched the dining room again, thinking maybe he’d glanced over it, but no. Still nothing. He went around for an eighth lap.

Had the ghost taken it?

No, no. Probably just someone else who had broken in during the night. Oh gosh, if he’d lost his wallet he would have to replace so much. Remus would never let him live it down. Screw the ghost–his parents would kill him.

“Shiiit,” Roman cursed under his breath. This sucked. This really sucked.

But, before Roman could take a ninth lap around, movement caught his eye in the corner of the room.

His head snapped up, eyes training on the empty space. A part of him wanted to speak up, ask if someone was there. Another part of him screamed that saying anything would be an invitation for ghost murder.

Then, something flickered there again.

“Hello?” he asked. Well, there was the invitation. Like the idiot in every horror movie Roman’s ever watched, he walked towards it.

“Weird how I can hear you better than most people,” a voice greeted him. A shiver of shock ran up Roman’s spine.

“Oh, great,” he said nervously. “The ghost.”

“Oh, great,” the ghost mimicked, voice dull. “You can hear me too.”

“Um, I should probably tell you, I’m not here to hurt you, so please don’t hurt me?” Roman said, finally having the common sense to not get closer. “I can leave if you want. Or maybe you need someone to help you find the other side? I’m no Jennifer Love Hewitt, but…”

“Yeah, no. Already on that case, so I don’t need any help,” the voice said. It was warped, but not as badly as yesterday. Less like screaming down a tunnel and more like shouting just a little ways up the street.

“Okay, um. Cool,” Roman said, nodding to himself. “Then you won’t kill me if I stick around to look for my wallet a bit longer?” This was surreal. He was literally talking to a ghost. 

“Do what you want,” the guy said. Or, at least, Roman thought they were a guy. They had a deeper register, a gruff-sounding voice, but that didn’t necessarily mean dude. “Wait,” the ghost said, back-tracking. Oh shit, were they changing their mind about killing him? “Were you one of the people here yesterday? I think it was yesterday…”

“Yeah!” Roman agreed, nodding his head. “That was me and my friends- Unless… we did something to piss you off. Then definitely not me or anyone I care about. You’ve got the wrong guys.”

He heard something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Had Roman just made a ghost laugh? Holy shit, why wasn’t that on his bucket list? He was adding that and crossing it off tonight. “You guys are good. I’m not the killing kind of ghost.”

Roman laughed too, though it was a bit high and nervous. Talking to a ghost. He was talking to a ghost.

“I’m talking to a ghost,” he said, trying to wrap his head around it. “I’m talking to a freaking ghost.”

“Yeah, and who did you think was here? Someone trapped in the wall?”

“I mean,  _ no _ . I’m not an idiot,” Roman said. “But holy freaking Excaliber, I’m talking to a  _ ghost _ !”

“Take a video. It’ll last longer,” the ghost said drily. Roman wasn’t even slowed. His fear was gone; his shock was gone; all that was left- Excitement.

“What’s your name? Can you go through walls? Can you move things? Do you moan as you walk around this haunted house, mourning the life you can never return to?”

“Hey!” the ghost interjected. Roman stopped, realizing a possible mistake.

Death might be a sensitive subject…

“Oh,” he said, shifting on his feet. “Um, sorry about that. I’ve been told I don’t think about what I say when I get excited?”

“Whatever,” they mumbled. “Name’s Virgil. Though why I’m telling you, I don’t know. It’s weird enough talking to some living person who broke into the house.”

“You think it’s weird talking to a  _ living  _ person?” Roman asked. “Well, this living guy’s got a name too. Roman Prince, at your service.”

“Perfect. I’m gonna sell your name to the devil for a buck fifty,” the ghost said. Roman gasped.

“How dare you!” 

“It’s what you get for trusting random supernatural phenomena with your name.”

“You aren’t a faerie,” Roman fumed, boring holes into the corner where the voice was coming from.

“And how do you know ghost isn’t just another subsection of fae creature? Here’s the thing: humans just turn into fae when we die.”

“That’s a lie,” Roman scoffed.

“But can you dispute it?” came the reply. 

“This is abuse of power!”

“And what is this power I hold?” Virgil asked, sounding way too smug for Roman’s liking. “Other than my fae powers, of course.”

“Knowledge is power. You know what comes after life and that gives you power over this conversation. To which I revolt against.”

“You revolt against?” Virgil asked, sounding way too close to laughing again. Roman placed a hand on his hip, looking down his nose at where he suspected his enemy stood.

“Also, you have ghost powers. I mean, I can’t even  _ see  _ you! How is that fair?”

“Well, that’s one thing we’re even on at least. Can’t see you either, jackass.”

“...what?”

“You’re right. I do know a lot more about being a ghost than you. Surprise surprise- Trouble seeing the dead is a two-way street, in which we can’t see the  _ living  _ either.”

“That’s…” Roman said, mulling that over in his head until he finally decided just what exactly it was. “That’s fucked.”

“Tell me about it,” Virgil grumbled. “Anyway, find your wallet and leave, living guy. I’ve got things to do.”

“Really?” Roman asked, and it wasn’t sceptical this time. He was actually curious–as curiosity was at least 95% of his being. “What sort of things do ghosts do?”

“Moan as I walk around, mourning the life I can never return to, of course,” was the reply.

“Oh, real funny,” Roman narrowed his eyes, though his lips were smiling. He didn’t have to worry about the ghost seeing though, apparently. “Stealing my material. Didn’t know being a ghost made you a thief.”

“Nah, I was a thief when I was alive. It just carried over,” Virgil said, and if Roman could hear the humor in that dry voice, Virgil had probably heard his too. Damn it. “And you can say dying, you know. Just no personal questions, alright?”

“Does that mean I can stay?” Roman asked, hope rising to his chest. 

Virgil sounded confused. “Huh?”

“You said no personal questions, which implies I can ask other questions. So you’re not kicking me out?”

“Don’t you have a wallet to find?” Virgil replied, skeptical again.

“Yeah, sure. That would be important, but I also don’t have any more classes today. I jammed most of them into Tuesday/Thursday, so I just have my three hour 8AM on Monday/Wednesdays. Which is a suck-ass class, but I do get the rest of the day to myself.”

“You’re a student?”

“I go to WSU, right up the street!” Roman replied. “Go Pelicans, am I right?”

“That sounds… disgusting,” Virgil said. 

“Probably,” Roman shrugged. “I haven’t been to any of our games, but apparently we suck. Oh, well. Great theater program.”

“Are you in the theater program?” Virgil asked.

“Am I in the theater program?!?” Roman exclaimed, finding personal affront in the question. “Why, Virgil Possible-Fae Ghost! I was born for the stage!”

“You know, I’m starting to get that. Also, did you just give me the last name Ghost?”

“And you’re cool with Possible-Fae being your middle name?”

“I just figured you read my mind and found my actual middle name. I’m more wondering why you’d think I’d have such a stereotypical last name as Ghost.”

“You’re freaking me out more and more with this fae stuff.”

“Are you scared of fae or something?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Roman asked. “Ghosts? Piece of cake. I’d befriend one in a day. But fae-no. Evil. They want my gold and my first-born child.”

“Yeah, we hoard babies and eat gold. It’s a part of our lifestyle.”

“That’s a relief for the babies, but don’t you get indigestion from the gold?”

“Not if you’re already dead.”

“Touche.”

Roman chuckled down at his feet. He heard a small breath come from Virgil, probably a weak laugh, but when Roman looked up there was still no one there.

Of course there was no one there. Virgil was a ghost.

What was it earlier he’d seen to make Roman look over then?

“I’m talking to a wall,” Roman chuckled. 

Virgil scoffed. “Good _ bye _ , Roman.”

“I call you a wall and you want me gone?  _ That’s  _ where the line is?”

“You call me a wall, and I remember we shouldn’t be talking. You’re gonna end up thinking you’re hallucinating. Or you’ll tell someone about this, and  _ they’ll  _ think you’re hallucinating. Interacting with the dead is probably not the best thing for the living.”

“Come on, I’m not an idiot,” Roman scoffed. “I’m only telling my brother and Janus. Who A. are crazier than I am and B. heard you themselves when they were here yesterday. If I’m going crazy then I’d rather take full advantage of talking to a ghost while I can before I end up tragically sane once more.”

“Alright Mr. Maybe-Not-Sane. Stay as long as you want. Not like I can control you. If I steal your babies or eat your gold, no refunds.”

“I think that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Roman smirked.

Weirdly enough, Roman didn’t find his wallet. But he also didn’t go back to campus until evening.

He talked to a ghost for the rest of the afternoon. Midterms weren’t even upon them, and Roman was already losing his mind that semester.

-/-

Virgil’s existence was pretty surreal. He was a ghost. He didn’t age. His best friends were grim reapers, and his arms had magic that let someone else draw on him based on their soul compatibility. 

Talking to Roman may have been the most surreal of them all.

It could be that Virgil hadn’t talked to anyone outside Patton or Logan since he’d died. Maybe because Roman was alive and breathing and aging. Maybe because, well, even alive Virgil had never had such an easy time talking to someone. 

He didn’t feel nervous. Why didn’t he feel nervous?

It was easy talking to Roman, and he didn’t have to worry that his dry humor or sarcastic voice would offend the guy because Roman gave just as good as he got. It was a constant battle of wits, except the wits weren’t very clever, and everything they said was spoken with serious ridiculousness. 

Virgil was kind of sad to see the guy go.

A few days later, the house was dark as usual, and Virgil drifted along, losing time. He stood by the flickering lamp for a while, focusing on controlling it. At times of weakness, he rolled up his sleeves to check on Red.

Red didn’t write often anymore. Virgil couldn’t blame him, of course, but it did make him feel all sorts of pain. There were only two things at the moment Red had written: his return to sender and a small stormcloud etched on his wrist. Right where Virgil had written his last message years ago, on the day of Red’s graduation. Virgil had wanted to remind Red that he was there with him, even if they were not together yet.

It was odd seeing the stormcloud in red. Virgil didn’t think Red had ever drawn it, since the symbol had always been one Virgil used. Red’s was the crown.

“Hmm,” Virgil hummed, taking his marker out of his pocket. He was hopeless. He couldn’t resist.

He took a deep breath, and, though it did nothing for his body, the familiar motion helped him to focus. As he felt his being solidify–or become as physical as was able–he uncapped the marker and drew a quick little crown next to the cloud, releasing the apparition almost as quickly as he’d gained it. It was difficult to keep.

And it didn’t help that the marker faded with it, turning from black into dust, slipping from his form. 

Virgil sighed, shaking his head bitterly. “Of course.”

“Virgil?” a voice called, and Virgil froze, mind zipping away from the marker and his disappointment. His eyes fell on the stairs down the hallway. That wasn’t Patton’s voice. And Logan definitely wouldn’t yell.

He ran for it, gliding down the stairs at lightning speed. He almost choked when he hit the bottom.

“Roman?”

“Hey, there you are!” Roman’s voice greeted him. Virgil looked around, trying to narrow down where it was coming from.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, unable to keep the bewilderment from his voice. He stepped further into the room, feeling like he was staking it out through echolocation. 

“What do you mean? You said I could.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

Roman paused for a minute. Then, “Did you not want me to?”

“No!” Virgil nearly shouted before realizing what he’d done. Ah shit, so much for nonchalance. “I mean, I said you can do what you want. I’m not trying to kick you out.”

“Oh,” Roman said, and he sounded a lot more smug now. Great. “Really? You don’t  _ care  _ if I’m here? It’s just… all up to me and definitely not because you want me here?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I barely know you.”

“We talked for a whole day on Wednesday! I feel like I know you better than all of my past boyfriends combined.”

“Doesn’t sound like very good boyfriends.”

Roman hummed. “No, they weren’t.” He didn’t seem bothered by it. “But they were good at kissing.”

“Gross. TMI, sir.”

“Gross. Don’t call me sir.”

“Gross. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Gross. The bees are disappearing at an alarming rate.”

“Gross. You sound like Logan.”

“Who’s Logan?” 

For a second, Virgil was thrown off by the question. Then, he shrugged, despite knowing Roman wouldn’t see. It was the integrity of the matter. “A friend of mine. He’s a grim reaper.”

“I...don’t know if you’re joking or not.”

“I’m not. He and another friend reaped my soul, and we’ve been buddies ever since.”

“Is that how you make friends?”

“That’s how ghosts with no other options make friends,” Virgil replied, though the words tasted wrong on his tongue. “No, that’s not right.”

“What?” Roman asked. Virgil looked down at his feet, scuffing along the floorboards. As much as he kicked, Virgil couldn’t startle the dust.

“It’s not because I don’t have any other options. They’re actually really cool. Just don’t tell them I said that.”

“Considering I don’t even know if I could meet a grim reaper, I think your secret’s safe with me.”

Virgil chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, it’s probably best that you don’t meet one anytime soon. Live a few more years at least.”

“So…there wasn’t any bad blood between you guys? Because they reaped your soul?”

“Personal question, Princey,” Virgil warned. Roman went silent for a second and Virgil got one of those rare worries in their conversations. Had he offended Roman? Had he hurt him? They barely knew each other. Virgil didn’t owe him anything.

“Sorry about that,” Roman said at last, and Virgil felt the defensive urge to snap at him for the unnecessarily long pause. It’s what he would have done when he was alive–afraid of what everyone at school thought of him and willing to maintain a moody, dark image if it just meant people would stay away. But Virgil held his tongue.

“No problem,” he said instead. “So, any lead on your wallet?”

And Roman continued to visit, looking for his wallet. Every few days became every other day, and soon Roman wasn’t even asking about his wallet–just there to talk with someone he couldn’t even see.

He started taking his textbooks and notebooks over, take-out food, hobby materials to do things he would otherwise do at his dorm, or the library, or in a cafe or study hall. Virgil was confused by it, but also sort of flattered. Roman was taking his day and bringing it there. He talked to Virgil about what he was studying, explained what he was eating, showed him music and gushed about screenplays he wrote. 

Virgil could  _ hear  _ Roman too, which was strange. Not just the in and out of his voice, the every-other-word deal he usually got with the living, but actual, full-on sentences. As they got to know one another, he could have sworn it got better too–voice louder, clearer, and inflection strong.

And, without even looking for it, they found Roman’s wallet. It was just sitting there, in a corner of the room. One of them should have seen it before, but it took a week to actually notice. Virgil was unwilling to question it too much though, nervous that Roman would leave now that he had what he came for.

But Roman didn’t question it either. He continued to come by just as often.

Surreal.

It all happened so quickly too. One day, Virgil didn’t even know the guy, and the next they were practically joined at the hip. The very thought of it made Virgil want to disappear. Roman couldn’t see him–if Virgil never spoke then maybe he’d go away. At the same time, however…Virgil couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop this, whatever it was. 

“Do you ever see me?” Roman asked one day out of the blue. The sound of paper shuffling reached Virgil’s ears, clearer than ever.

“What? No. I told you I don’t,” Virgil replied, confused. 

“Yeah, but that was when we first met.”

“Which was like two weeks ago.”

“And I see flickers of  _ you  _ sometimes, so-”

“You see  _ what _ ?” Virgil asked. “What does that even mean?”

“Like, I see you sometimes. Not for very long. Just a second, then you’re gone again. But I see you.”

Shaken as Virgil was, he steadied his voice. “I...guess that makes sense. There are plenty of people out there who claim they’ve seen ghosts.”

“I take it no one has seen you before though.”

Virgil shook his head, another gesture Roman couldn’t see. Or could he? “No one. And, I mean, not many people come around often, but there was a homeless guy living here for a while one time and he didn’t see me either.”

Roman hummed. “Strange. Well, it’s my pleasure to be the first.”

“Yeah…” Virgil agreed, letting the conversation drop. Roman hummed, like he did when he was concentrating, and more paper shuffled. He must have gone back to his work.

Virgil, though, continued to think on it.

Because this had to mean something, didn’t it? Maybe things were getting better. Maybe Logan and Patton were figuring things out–were going to tell Virgil soon that they were closer than ever to bringing him back. It’d been almost two years; some progress had to be made, right?

Maybe Roman would be the one to help. Maybe he was the living person they needed. Could any living guy do? Could Roman do it? Would he want to?

Maybe seeing these flickers of Virgil was the first step to fixing this all. Maybe Virgil was on his way to living again and leaving this whole mistake behind him.

For once, Virgil allowed himself hope.

What was worse than death, after all?

-/-

The bags under Roman’s eyes hadn’t gone nor gotten any better. He was sleeping a decent amount, though as a college student it could never be perfect. Between classes, rehearsal, and visiting Virgil, there was no way. But the circles didn’t bother Roman too much. He covered them with makeup if he went anywhere that mattered.

Given that he went to 8AMs in pajamas, rehearsal sweated away most products he wore, and Virgil couldn’t even see him, it was rare that he covered it up.

He and Remus were meeting with their parents for brunch that Sunday, however, and he certainly didn’t need to give them any more reason to worry about him. 

It didn’t help. Good as Roman was at makeup, the spots were dark and difficult to cover. By the end of brunch, Roman was looking to run.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love my moms, but they are so overbearing. They’ve been treating me like I’m some fragile vase ever since-” Roman cut himself off, staring at the ceiling of the haunted, but not scary anymore, house he frequented.

He was laying on the floor of the living room, despite wearing his nice clothes from the brunch. Roman had come straight there once he’d escaped the diner with twenty hugs and kisses and requests to call more. He had made a note a few days ago to bring in a broom, but, until then, he was laying in what had to be hundreds of years worth of dust. 

Okay, maybe like ten or twenty years. It was still gross.

“That sucks,” Virgil said, and Roman appreciated him sticking to his own choir and not poking his nose in. Roman seriously didn’t want to talk about it.

Seriously.

Virgil didn’t want personal business, so Roman didn’t either.

No talking about it.

So Roman hummed in reply, but said nothing.

Because, truth was, his mind was still on it.

“Can I ask a personal question?” he said at last. The answer was to be expected. 

“No.” But Virgil sounded unsure, thrown off. Roman wasn’t going to push though.

“Can I tell you something personal then?”

He thought he heard the sound of a swallow, the crack of a voice, as Virgil said, “Yeah, sure. It’s your life.”

“Cool,” Roman said, nodding at the ceiling. “I’m in love with my soulmate.”

It felt nice to say it, after so long. It was no secret; it was nothing new, but Roman had kept it close to him the past one and a half years. 

“That’s...nice,” Virgil said. Roman let his lip quirk up, just the slightest bit.

“It is,” he agreed, then his mouth went down again. “And not so much.”

“Why’s that?” Virgil asked, showing interest for once and drawing past the careful lines they’d built between them. Nothing personal. That stopped today.

“He hasn’t written back in years.” Roman sat up. “Now no one will even mention soulmates to me. Like if I thought too much about losing him it would break me. News flash: I’ve thought about it plenty already. Avoiding it only makes me think of it more! But I haven’t broken yet, have I? I can hurt and get back up after it.”

"I just feel like… my soulmate stopped writing, and he was such a big part of my life. But then I didn't have that part to talk about or write to anymore. I couldn’t say how hurt I felt or how worried I was or…" Roman sighed. "He was my best friend. And it felt like I was lonelier than ever. So when everyone treats me like glass- can't talk about something so common to our lives as soulmates- Even if we're not talking about  _ my _ soulmate- I don't know. It just felt like the world had alienated me, and I couldn't get back to where I belonged–couldn't even  _ pretend  _ to be okay. I couldn't try to be okay because everyone assumed I just wouldn't be."

Roman put his head into his hands. "I wasn't okay, so I guess they were right. I might never be okay after he just disappeared like that. But it doesn't mean my life isn't okay.” His hands balled into fists, his own bitterness curling in. “Why can't things just… be okay?"

Virgil was silent for a second, and Roman worried things had gotten too personal–that he’d made Virgil uncomfortable or, worse, alienated him too. He pressed his fists into his eyes, taking a shaky breath in.

"We're all just trying to keep it together, aren't we?" Virgil said at last, and his voice was pretty close. Roman didn't look up though. "I know I said no personal business, man, but… it's fine if you talk about what you want here. Anything you don't want to discuss out there in the living world–it's free game here. I don't think you're going to break if you just talk about what's on your mind. And even if you break a little, it's not irreparable."

Roman’s breath caught, shoulders stiffening in his slumped posture. He’d never thought of it that way. Never thought that he could break… and it would be okay. He’d always thought being hurt had to be smoothed over as soon as possible or he’d dwell on the past forever–always looking at his arms, always writing in vain to Purple.

Every time he thought of Purple, it hurt. He had to redirect his attention. He had to let it go.

But he also knew he’d never let it go. He knew he would wonder what had happened to his soulmate forever, and Roman felt guilty about that. He thought he should move past it. That’s what a healthy person would do. That’s what his parents, his brother, his friends, all wanted.

No one wanted Roman to stay stuck in the past. He’d always been one to look forward, to dream big and loud.

"Your folks care about you, you know.” Virgil continued. “They could learn a thing or two about healthy communication, but they  _ are _ doing it out of a place of love. I- My folks were the same sometimes.”

Roman’s breath caught. Was Virgil… talking about himself?

“I was scared of a lot and they always talked about why I shouldn’t be scared of things. Which is reasonable, you know? But that’s not what we need to hear sometimes. I think it’s good to show someone that what they’re feeling… is fine. Maybe it’s not rational, but it’s real to us, you know? You shouldn’t have to hide what you’re feeling just because someone else expects you to act a certain way. If they think you’re going to permanently break, then that’s on them for doubting you.”

Roman inhaled, a clenching feeling around his heart. It felt… relieving. Freeing, in a way. Like he carried something important in him now and had swept away many others. It was funny, hearing something so resonating, so similar to  _ him  _ in someone else’s words. He felt- well, he felt understood.

He’d never expected that to be such a wild feeling.

"Thanks, Virgil," Roman said, sighing into his knees. "Thank y-" he went to say again, but, when he lifted his head to give the words, he froze as his eyes met… something.

Something solid. Something real.

Roman gasped.

Virgil's eyes widened. And Roman could see it. 

"Are you al-" Virgil started to ask, dark eyes bouncing back and forth.

"Can you see me too?" he asked quickly, scooting forward so closely that he knew straight away what Virgil's answer would be.

Virgil didn't even blink; his eyes didn't follow when Roman invaded his space. He was trying to train his gaze in the right direction, eyebrows furrowed, but Roman could tell they weren't on him. 

"See?" Virgil asked. "What do you mean see? Did I… flicker or whatever again?" 

"No," Roman breathed, and that was when Virgil flinched. He backed away from the close sound of Roman's voice, and Roman respectfully did the same, ears turning red at forgetting himself so easily. "You're there. I can see you, and you aren't fading out." 

"You can… see me?" 

"Clear as day," Roman agreed, not taking his eyes off the other. Now that he could see him, Roman took in every detail he could, in case Virgil would just fade away again. Roman’s gaze locked onto his dark eyes, still darting to and fro. He considered how pale the other was, deathly pale, and Roman would have figured it was the whole being dead thing if not for the rest of Virgil's ensemble: a dark hoodie, black painted nails, jeans surprisingly intact for how shredded they appeared. He had to ask…

"Was it before or after you died that you got the emo nightmare look?"

Virgil's confusion turned into shock before he seemed to remember Roman could see him–Roman could  _ see  _ him; he could actually  _ see Virgil! _ –and Virgil schooled his expression once more. The scowl he dawned was new to Roman, but it fit Virgil like an old glove.

"Bet you don't look too good yourself, Princey. What? Varsity jacket? V-neck?"

Roman actually gasped at that, hand flying to his mouth. "Take that back!" 

"Too close to home for you?" 

"I am  _ not _ a jock," Roman argued. Virgil rolled his eyes, and Roman felt a smile creep up his lips. He didn't have to hide it, however, because Virgil couldn't see.

Why could Roman see but Virgil couldn't? 

"Varsity jackets and v-necks aren't just for jocks. Sometimes douchebags come in theater kid shapes and sizes," Virgil snarked, and it was obvious he was teasing, but that only fueled Roman more.

"And where's  _ your _ choker? Dyed hair? I bet you've dyed it before. What was it? Blue? No, green."

Virgil was sputtering at this point, and Roman knew he'd gotten him. "I didn't- I mean, sure- What's your point, Princey?"

"I don't think I have a point anymore." Roman sat back, considering the other. "Red?"

"It was purple!" Virgil exclaimed.

Roman sat up, smile going wider. "I should have known." 

"And why would you have known that?" Virgil asked, raising a brow. Roman shrugged.

"Angst."

"Angst?" Virgil asked. "What about purple is angsty?" 

"It's a mysterious color, don't you think?" Roman asked, and because he could never stop moving, flopped onto his stomach. "It's the color right at dusk when the sky isn't completely black yet. Or the colors of galaxies swirling in on themselves. The color of a rare flower or mountains in the distance. Evanescence lyrics on-"

Abruptly, Roman closed his mouth, jaw audibly clicking shut. Roman could see Virgil trying to look his way the best he could, confusion once again on his face. Roman was grateful he couldn't be seen. His own features had gone white.

Now that his brain had caught up, Roman remembered all that purple meant to him. The simple little color, how could he forget? 

"Princey?" Virgil asked, sounding unsure. Roman looked up to find Virgil's eyes darting back and forth, waiting, perhaps, for Roman to materialize too.

"I wonder why you can't see me," Roman said, substituting a conversation he'd rather abandon for one he had no answers to. But maybe Virgil would have a better idea. He was the ghost here.

“Who knows,” Virgil shrugged, eyes lingering in Roman’s vicinity before letting the conversation go. He’d noticed–of course he’d noticed–but he’d let Roman have his way. That was nice of him.

He’d done that before too. Virgil wasn’t fond of getting personal, as Roman well knew by now. But he’d told Roman he could share whatever he wanted. And, Roman may not have known him for too long, but he could tell Virgil had been serious about it.

Virgil had even shared something about himself.

Roman, however, figured he’d done enough sharing that day. As far as emotions went, he was exhausted. Too much had happened that day. There was a lot for Roman to consider.

_ Hurt, but not broken. Broken… but not irreparable? _

He sighed and sat back, letting his nice shirt scrub the floor. It’d be unsalvageable.

But he smiled up at the ceiling, anyway. 

_ Oh well. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you look, when Virgil meets Logan and Patton he goes through the stages of grief backwards! This has to do with the fact that his death was a mistake. Also, I know there was varsity jacket roasting in this, but I love Roman in a varsity jacket. Anyone doing that, keep doing god’s work.


	2. no personal questions

“Hey, what’s your favorite book?” Roman asked one day, feet kicked up on the wall as he struggled to read the ancient text his professor had assigned. It was a small book, but Roman still thought it was way too much for one weekend. He could barely wrap his mind around the flowery language and dismal plot.

“Personal question,” Virgil noted as he flipped through another one of Roman’s books. It was fun to watch–his eyes wide, his brow scrunched, his fingers sometimes slipping through the pages.

But Roman wasn’t paying much attention to that anymore. Instead, he was sputtering.

“How personal is that?” he asked, sitting up to direct a good indignant look the ghost’s way. Too bad the guy couldn’t see. “Really, how personal? It’s literally a small-talk question. A getting-to-know-you question.”

Virgil snorted and, going by the tiniest smirk he had at the corner of his lips, Roman knew the guy was messing with him. “It’s  _ A Christmas Carol _ by Charles Dickens.”

“A classic? Out of all the books in the world, you pick a  _ classic _ ?”

“Hey, they’re classics for a reason,” Virgil defended.

“Yeah, because a bunch of white guys all agreed boring books were good,” Roman retorted. 

“Have you read  _ A Christmas Carol _ ?”

Roman sensed a trap. “Yes,” he said anyway, sticking his nose into the air.

“And you seriously didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Roman pouted. Why was it that he was talking to the ceiling half the time with this guy? Even now that he could see Virgil, he usually only looked his way when Virgil was busy with something himself.

What did that say about Roman, that he always found his eyes drawn over there in their silence?

Or that he couldn’t really focus on words if he looked at Virgil during their conversations...

“I’m just saying that there are a lot of better books out there,” Roman huffed, folding his arms across his chest. He was glad Virgil couldn’t see the sudden red that had spread to his cheeks. 

“Hmm, okay,” Virgil said, tapping his chin. “Shakespeare.”

Roman looked over, confused. “What about him?”

“That’s your classic, isn’t it? Something by Shakespeare. You’re a theater nerd and a romantic. Totally fits.”

Roman frowned, but wasn’t necessarily displeased. In fact, he was a little impressed. 

“Guess the play and I’ll give you the point.”

“It’s a play and not a sonnet?” Virgil inquired, leaning back onto his hands. 

“Of course I won’t choose between plays and sonnets! They’re in two completely different areas of favoritism,” Roman scoffed, waving a hand. He crossed his legs up on the wall, adjusting so his butt wouldn’t go numb. How unbecoming would that be?

“That’s probably for the best,” Virgil said. “I suck at remembering his poems.”

“I will educate you later.”

“I’ve had people try, Princey, but go right ahead,” Virgil shrugged. “So you probably find tragedies decent enough, but you’re more of a comedy slash romance kind of guy, I bet. You find the themes interesting, but you’re not into everyone dying all the time. Hijinks are fun, but not what you’re most interested in. You’ve got to appreciate Shakespeare’s humor if he’s one of your favorites, though. That means you aren’t above dick jokes.”

“I would say  _ A Winter’s Tale _ since that’s his classic romance, but that seems too much, even for you. Leontes is no fun to read, in my opinion.  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , maybe, because that shit’s honestly hilarious until everything hits the fan, but, like I said, your favorite’s probably not a tragedy.  _ The Tempest _ could be it since it’s romantic and serious in both parts without all the death. It’s interesting thinking about it being like Shakespeare’s farewell, but you seem more the type to focus on the effects of the story itself. I think I’m going to go with  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ .”

“Alright,” Roman said, lifting a brow. He was a bit taken aback, not expecting the influx of Shakespeare knowledge. “Reasoning?”

“Genuinely fun to read, Hermia is iconic, and I would bet you’ve put on the stage play before.”

Roman hummed, tilting his head back to Virgil. “I’m impressed. I didn’t take you for a Shakespeare nerd.”

Virgil shrugged. “Not really…” he trailed off, but Roman could tell there was something else going on in his head, something on the tip of his tongue. Roman tilted his head, but said nothing. “I just paid more attention I guess because I talked to my soulmate about it a lot.”

Roman’s breath caught on the unexpected detail. He didn’t dare breathe, possibly waiting for more–about Virgil's life before… well, before death.

But it seemed Virgil was done, looking away from the spot he’d been staring into and back in Roman’s direction. “So, was I right?”

Roman bit his lip, tamping down on the urge to ask more. Softly, he breathed out, trying to level his voice before answering and ending up squeaking or something equally embarrassing.

“No. But nice try.”

“What is it then? Probably something I haven’t even read,” Virgil said.

Roman sat up, movement full of energy as he leaned back on his legs. He smiled in excitement, despite knowing Virgil wouldn’t see. “ _ Twelfth Night _ . It’s funny and super gay. Plus, if my twin suddenly came back from the dead, I wouldn’t celebrate; I’d punch him.”

Virgil snorted, covering his mouth in that way he always did–like he didn’t want Roman to see, or make Roman somehow not realize he was laughing if he hid it. Roman’s curiosity raged, wanting to see the smile or hear Virgil laugh unrestrained. It was an itch in the back of his mind he wouldn’t acknowledge.

“You have a twin?” Virgil asked.

“Yeah,” Roman said. “The brother I told you came with me the first time I was here? That’s him.”

“You said his name is Remus, right?”

“Yep,” Roman nodded. “If you could see us, you’d definitely notice that we’re identical. Except he grew out a mustache and dyed a streak of his hair, and I turned out to be the gorgeous one.”

“And the more annoying,” Virgil commented.

Roman made a noise of indignance and placed a hand over his heart–normal routine. “You wound me!”

“You’d think you’d build up a tolerance to my bullshit by now.”

“And you certainly have never met Remus if you think  _ I’m  _ the annoying one.”

“Oh,  _ please _ ,” Virgil said, sounding unimpressed. “How bad can the guy be?”

“You know how little kids ask their parents on road trips when they’re going to get there, and the parents threaten to turn the car around if they keep asking?”

“Yeah?”

“Remus asked for an hour straight before my parents finally had to carry through. We were supposed to go to Disney for the weekend!” Roman had been so angry about it that he couldn’t bring himself to speak of it to anyone, lest feeling like he would explode.

“Okay, but that must have been when you were younger…”

“We were freshmen in high school!” Roman exclaimed. Virgil’s face lifted in surprise, but Roman continued. “Still too distant? How about last week when he brought an actual hornet’s nest into my dorm? Somehow he kept them calm, but he was hugging the hive like it was his child or something.”

“That’s… well…”

“And don’t get me started on my art supplies! Back when we shared a room, he used to lick it all. I had to shut up the toxic stuff into a lockbox under my bed and resign to my fate that all the crayons were forever chew toys. I actually have one of those crayon boxes with me here in my backpack, if you wanna see.”

“You have them with you?”

“Yes, I need to decorate a project. These crayons are my newest pack at roughly a year old. Most of them are chomped in half and have lost their paper wrappings.”

“Is it, like, a nervous habit or something?” Virgil asked, sounding way more forgiving of his brother’s antics than he ever had with Roman’s. Roman pouted at the thought, but he also couldn’t help but feel grateful that Virgil didn’t dislike his brother on merit. 

Virgil was his own person with his own opinions, and, while it was nice when Virgil showed he understood, it was equally beneficial that he didn’t agree with Roman all the time. It showed that he was being genuine, honest. That he gave people a chance and didn’t rely on someone else’s word to judge someone.

Also, Remus was  _ Roman’s  _ brother. It was just plain awkward when he complained about Remus and people started to rag on him too. Um, no. Roman would fight a guy for bad-mouthing his brother. 

He was still going to try convincing Virgil that Remus was  _ annoying _ .

“Remus likes the taste of gross things. He’s said it just like that: ‘gross things.’ Like, the guy recognizes they taste disgusting, but it’s as if it intrigues him or something.”

Virgil shifted, mouth going down into a half-frown looking thing. "Is that… not a normal sibling thing?"

Roman barked a laugh. "I don't think anyone normal eats toxic materials, sibling or not."

"Uh… okay."

"I take it you don't have siblings," Roman remarked. It took him approximately two seconds to freeze.  _ Personal question? _

Virgil didn’t seem to react much to it. He shrugged, looking unaffected. “Nope. I guess my dumbass was enough for my parents.”

“Oh?” Roman asked, curious enough to risk more. It wasn’t like Virgil was giving up anything without choice. He would just stay quiet if he really didn’t want to talk about it.

Maybe it wasn’t that Virgil didn’t want to say anything. Maybe he was just a bit… scared.

“Were you a handful as a kid?” Roman asked, humored by the notion. He could imagine Virgil as a little asshole child. One of those kids with a big mouth and who planted their little fists on their waist when they challenged their parents. 

“You could say that,” Virgil said, but, instead of looking embarrassed or even humored at his own past, he sighed, resigned more than anything. “I had anxiety when I was, you know, alive. I don’t know if I technically still have it, but the feeling certainly hasn’t gone away. It was just a lot for them to handle–a kid who got panic attacks.”

“I’m sure they were fine with it,” Roman said, trying to stay supportive. Despite their conversations usually heiring toward banter, it wasn’t hard. “You’re their son.”

“Not really,” Virgil said, rubbing a page between his fingers. “I may be their son, but that doesn’t mean I was what they signed up for.”

“Parents sign up for the unexpected when they have kids,” Roman said.

“Not when it’s me," Virgil replied.

Roman was silent for a beat, watching him. Virgil never maintained eye contact, not when he couldn’t see Roman, but he was definitely avoiding it now. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Virgil said down to the book in front of him. “I love my parents, and they loved me. We got along. They helped me with my attacks as best as they could, and Mom was, like, super protective of me because of it. They knew something was wrong with me… they just didn’t know how to deal with it. They used to think the attacks were tantrums and would send me to my room to work it out, then, when I got one at school and the counselor recommended I see a doctor about it, they got really guilty. Went super protective mode.”

“It was always guilt after that, I think. They were guilty for not doing better, and I was guilty for making them feel guilty. They tried to show me that things aren’t so scary, and I tried to show them I was getting better. It didn’t ever really work though. I just kept hiding more and more from them.”

"Well, it's kind of like what you told me before, isn't it?" Roman asked. Virgil pursed his lips, but didn't go to argue. Roman took that as his cue to go on. "They care about you, even if they could show it a bit better."

Virgil stayed quiet, looking up at Roman, or as close to Roman as he could get. His eyes darted around the area, and he was pretty close, actually–narrowing in on where Roman's voice had been.

"And, for the record," Roman said, adding in one last thing, "There's nothing wrong with you or with having panic attacks. Plenty of people get them. I know a few myself."

"Really?" Virgil asked, voice dripping with doubt. Roman could, in confidence, nod his head.

"Really."

Virgil chewed on this for a second, taking his time like always as he processed information. Though he had a habit of sometimes jumping to conclusions, stressing over the first and second and twentieth worst case scenario, he had an equally bad one of mulling over something until it was hashed to bits, every possible detail turned over for an explanation.

Roman wasn't sure how he knew that from just a few weeks of hanging with the guy, just that he was sure of it. Somehow, he felt as though he'd known Virgil for years.

Despite knowing actually very little of the guy's life or death.

"...alright," Virgil said at last, looking unsure, but accepting. Roman smiled, knowing he wouldn't see.

“You were definitely what they signed up for, Virge,” Roman said, the normal nickname slipping free before he could think. Virgil tilted his head before nodding.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter much anymore,” Virgil shrugged, before looking back down to his book.

And Roman… didn’t have anything to say about that.

-/-

It was weird.

Virgil had told Roman about his panic attacks. 

And… Virgil hadn't panicked about it.

Being dead had its ins and outs. The cold thing, he hated. Transparency, annoying. The weird emotions… he supposed he could live with.

Emotions while you were dead were a lot like being alive. In fact, Virgil might not have noticed anything different if it hadn't been for his anxiety. 

It happened like this: Virgil was used to being keyed up. All day. Often into the night. When he relaxed, it was usually because of music, or exhaustion, or random distraction. He could relax far easier alone, finding any number of people difficult to breathe around. 

So, alone in his room, laying on his bed, headphones blocking out the world, maybe playing solitaire on his phone or tracing the lines on his palm or picking apart a thread on his throw blanket, Virgil could breathe steady and feel just a bit like a normal person.

And, for the most part, that hadn't gone away just by dying.

On the other hand, however, there was something odd that happened when Virgil forgot himself. 

Logan and Patton said it was another thing to watch out for, be careful of. It was a sign of becoming just a bit  _ too _ dead.

When he became ghostly, fingers apparitions before him, Virgil could feel all the emotions leak out of him. All the good, all the bad, all to leave nothing. The tension in his shoulders bled and the thing in his bones–the one that fought, screamed, grasped for survival–flickered out. 

He guessed the dead didn't need to survive. 

That's what happened after he spoke to Roman that afternoon.

It wasn't even an hour after he'd left that Virgil noticed it. It had been his choice to tell, his trust he placed in Roman. But why? He barely knew the guy. He didn't know how he would react. He didn't know if he'd tell (who would he tell anyway?). Virgil didn't  _ know _ . And things he didn't know always led to disaster. Heck, things he  _ knew _ led to disaster, but at least he could prepare for them.

So Virgil waited for it–the impending strike of his mind. The spiral of fear to jolt him across the room, pacing until he'd exhausted every possible scenario racing through his head. 

Instead, he sighed. It was something low and mournful, giving up–anxiety having leaked from his bones before he'd ever noticed. How long had it been there? Since Roman had left? Before?

He grasped in vain, fingers slipping loose of reality. At the acknowledgment, the feeling seemed hungrier for his mind, sucking out everything there. A large part of Virgil didn't want to hold on to that reality as it fled. He couldn’t grasp the thoughts that made sense when the feeling was taking them all out.

It felt like death was crawling up his bones again, dragging him down, the heaviness of it all pulling at him like he had a body to pull down. His limbs shouldn't feel like lead. His mind shouldn't be so sluggish. 

He was supposed to focus on staying there, present, to remember life so he could get back to it.

But he felt himself getting dragged, down and down. 

When Virgil finally snapped back, he wasn't sure how he did it, only that it was dark outside and it wasn't long until morning.

-/-

Roman had brought a broom. The problem was, all the windows but one were boarded up, leaving nowhere for the dust to go.

"God, Princey, did you have to pick the build-your-own-tornado kit?" 

Meanwhile, Roman, a living  _ breathing _ human with  _ lungs _ was bent over at the waist, coughing up said lungs into the massive dust cloud he'd created. "Virgil," he coughed in the voice of a lifetime smoker. "It's killing me."

"Don't worry. Death's not as bad as you think."

"I hate you," Roman stated. Virgil smirked that devious smirk of his that plainly said  _ no you don't. _ And he was right.

Once the dust had settled again, caking the floor in a looser layer that threatened to attack with each slight movement, Roman straightened up. He really wished he had brought a water bottle. 

"You left me to die," Roman accused, voice still raspy. Virgil rested his head on his hand, propped up on his knee. Against all notions of gravity, he was sitting feather-light on the stair's railing. 

"I think I deserve the company," Virgil said.

"Aw, if you wanted to see more of me, you only had to ask."

"You're right. I can't wish death on you if it means I can never escape you."

"There's only two inevitables in life, Mad-Eyed Broody," Roman said, counting off on his fingers. "Death and me." He bat his lashes, giving his most over-the-top flirtatious smile. He actually got a genuine laugh out of Virgil for that one. 

Still with a smile on his face, Virgil pretended to vomit. 

"I've been unfortunate enough to encounter both at eighteen-years-old."

"You're eighteen?" Roman asked, and he wasn't sure why the news shocked him so. Virgil was obviously young–somewhere around Roman's age–but putting a number to it, actual evidence to the notion… 

"Yep," Virgil nodded. "Or, at least I was when I died." 

"I'm nineteen," Roman offered. It felt like the thing to do.

Or maybe not  _ the _ thing. A thing. It was a thing to do. 

"You must have been still in high school," Roman muttered, staring at his feet, hand gripping the broom tight. 

"Just graduated, actually," Virgil spoke up, making Roman jump. 

Roman hadn't really… meant for Virgil to hear that. But he hadn't really hid it either, so of course he'd heard. Roman's tongue tied into knots. 

"Nice grad gift," Roman joked with a weak chuckle. Virgil let his legs fall down, swinging them from side to side.

"Actually, my dad gave me a watch," Virgil said, and it almost sounded conversational. Weird, not the coping mechanism Roman would have pegged the guy for. "It was technically from both my parents, but it's tradition in my dad's family to give the graduate a fancy timepiece. My parents didn't care for logistics though. I had plenty of stuff I shared with just my mom too." 

If Roman followed his snarky instinct, he'd point out that Virgil was indeed getting personal–what seemed his only stipulation in Roman being there. Roman, however, wouldn't risk this for anything. 

"I bet it was a helluva nice watch," Roman said. 

Virgil nodded. "Fancy's not my style, but yeah. I'd be scared to death of scratching it up. If the occasion rose, though, I would have worn it."

"Scared to death?" Roman snickered. Virgil rolled his eyes. Looking him over one last time, Roman realized something. This casual conversation, it wasn't coping. It was just that: conversation. "Does talking about this not bother you?"

"Well, I'm breaking my own 'no personal bullshit' rule to talk about it. So, no, not really." 

"But- But why not?" Roman sputtered. 

"It's my life. I think I can choose what bothers me about it," Virgil said, leaning back against the wall where the railing connected. 

Roman eyed him, then chose to sit. Again, right in the dust, making sure it didn't kick up when he plopped down. "...okay," he decided, a bit confusedly. 

Virgil watched him for a second before closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the wall. "Hm, never knew you to concede a point, Princey."

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?" 

Virgil sat back up and shrugged, moving to jump off the rail. In two steps, he was mostly in front of Roman. Mostly. When he sat down, Roman moved an inch or two to his right. 

"It doesn't bother me," Virgil repeated, and, before, Roman had believed him. Now, he was starting to doubt. "You want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because too much else in my life bothered me. I think I ran out of fucks to give."

"Oh, wow. Is that the new song title for your early 2000's scenmo band?" 

"Not long enough."

"That's what she-"

"Are you  _ five _ ?"

"Come on. That one always gets a laugh out of my broth- Oh, I see where I went wrong."

"Yeah," Virgil said, dragging out the syllables and rolling his eyes. 

Roman smiled down at his lap. Virgil was lying, but who was he to call him out on it? A guy's death wasn't typical conversation, now was it?

"So personal questions have to stay in the bounds of things that don't bother you?" Roman said, deciding to carry on with it.

"I never said  _ that _ ." 

"But you said  _ everything else _ bothered you. So if I can find one more thing that  _ doesn't  _ bother you, then I win and I get to ask a question about it." 

"Hm," Virgil hummed, contemplating this. He put a hand to his chin, elbow to his knee, and he perfectly embodied The Thinker. Well, except for the naked part. "You know what? Sure. Good luck finding anything else that doesn't bother me. My lips are sealed until then."

"Alright, Hilary Duff," Roman said, sitting up with a glint in his eye.

"Our Lips Are Sealed's original is by The Go-Go's," Virgil chimed in, laying back onto the floor. 

"Hush, my darling. Your lips are sealed," Roman waved him off, and Virgil snorted. Roman tried not to be too proud of that one. "Holy shit, wait. Are you from the 80's?"

"You made a scenmo reference earlier that I got. No. Also, I'm gonna count that as a topic that bothers me. Next."

"You were alive some time after the early 2000's. Got it."

"I said  _ next _ ," Virgil emphasized, smacking a hand to his face.

Roman put his own hands up in surrender. "Alright alright." He thought for a moment, then decided to go for one that'd get shot down in an instant. He had to test the waters. "Family."

"Next," Virgil said dully. Roman nodded.

"Friends?" he asked, a bit hopeful. 

Virgil's hand, still covering his face, rubbed at his eyes a bit. "Next."

"School," he said. This was probably a no-go, but, hey, Virgil had talked about his graduation a bit.

"Next." Oh poo.

"Hobbies."

Virgil went quiet for a moment, thinking through his answer. Roman smiled. Everyone liked talking about their hobbies. See? This wasn't so har-

"Next."

"Why?!?" 

"Nunya business. I answer to things that don't bother me."

"You could be cheating," Roman pointed out.

Virgil hummed. "I suppose I could be. But this is a game of trust."

"I didn't agree to that," Roman pouted, crossing his arms and putting as much whine into his voice as he could.

"Tough. I said my lips are sealed until you find something that doesn't bother me."

"Ugghhhh," Roman groaned, leaned back to aim his shouts at the ceiling. When he sat back up, he took a deep breath. "Alright. Let me think of more." 

"Yay," Virgil cheered unenthusiastically, raising a fist in weak excitement. 

Roman bit down on a grin. He was irritated with Virgil, damn it. 

"Holidays."

"No."

"Puppies."

"No thanks."

"Marshmallows."

"Fluffy bunny scares the shit out of me."

"Pokemon."

"We deserved a Sinnoh remake."

"Disney!" 

"Oh, man. You do  _ not _ want to get me started."

"Holy hell, man. You can't hate everything!"

"I can and I will," Virgil snickered darkly before dropping his hand from his face. "Besides, this isn't a matter of hate. I like Disney and Pokemon and puppies just fine-"

"You left out marshmallows."

"I like Disney and Pokemon and puppies just fine."

"Heathen," Roman hissed.

"They all just bother me in some way. You could literally do that for everything, and reasons come fast when your head has a penchant for disaster like mine."

"Scenmo song title," Roman mumbled under his breath. Virgil gave something between a laugh and a scoff, throwing his hand back to his forehead. It didn't obscure his eyes this time, but Virgil didn't bother looking his way. What would he see anyway? 

Virgil couldn't see how often Roman just watched him, documented when he blew a strand of hair from his face, rubbed at his eyes with a pout, smiled softly down at the newest book Roman had brought. Roman watched too much. It was definitely creepy. He never caught himself in time to be any less creepy. 

He wasn't sure if Virgil seeing him would help or harm. He would actually catch Roman doing it probably, which would be mortifying. Or maybe Roman would catch himself more often, knowing it was him or the mortifying experience. 

This was one of those times that Roman caught himself. One of the rare occasions when it was relatively quickly. Roman scanned the room red-faced nevertheless, looking for something, anything to contribute to this conversation.

His eyes went to the fireplace, to the window, along the walls, across the stairs and over the boarded up door. He chewed on his lip as he trailed along the floor, looking at scattered materials, avoiding that weird doll Remus had found on their first day there, avoiding even more insistently the ghost that laid across from him.

Until he landed on himself. His jeans, his scuffed vans, his loose jacket. He had taken to wearing inconsequential clothing to the house, hyper-aware of the dust and dirt since he'd ruined one of his best shirts in it. 

If he didn't wash his clothes before his brother found them, Remus always made jokes about rolling around a haunted house with a ghost, and that was a bit too much for Roman.

Shoving those thoughts out of mind, Roman tried to form some idea of what he could ask. All ideas had vacated the premise, and Roman was desperate for a single word, anything. He reached for his pockets, hoping he kept something conversation-worthy in there. He was no Remus, with his yen and caterpillar-infested chapstick, but there had to be something.

Then his eyes caught on his arms, and he blurted without thinking, "Soulmates."

Horrifyingly, he was met with silence. 

Of course. Of course he was. He'd talked about soulmates to Virgil before. Virgil had been fine with Roman talking about it, encouraged him even, but he’d barely said anything about his own. And they hadn't said much about soulmates since. 

What if it was a sore topic for him like it was with Roman?

Wait. Of course it was.

"Sorry, nevermi-"

But he was cut off as Virgil sat up, coming once more face-to-face with Roman, this time all but perfect. Except for the eyes. Never able to lock onto someone he couldn't see. 

"Soulmates?" he asked, a bit softer than normal. Aside from that, no indication that he was bothered. But of course he was bothered, wasn't he? He was… well… 

All Roman could do was swallow. Wait. 

Virgil fiddled with the frayed end of his sleeve, talked down to his lap. "I've got one, if that's going to be your question."

"Virgil, we don't- It obviously  _ does _ bother-"

Virgil shook his head, cutting Roman off. He laughed, dry and unfeeling. It was directed inward more than anything. "I've chosen my hill to die on. His pen's in red, so that's what I call him. We didn't trade names." 

Roman listened on with bated breath. He felt a kinship with this soulmate, knowing they had the same pen. It was by no means a rare color. Many people believed the colors represented personality–like a mood ring for the soul. Red was passion and romance and bravery and ambition. Roman used to put it in his bio on various social medias.

"There's stuff that bothers me about soulmates. They're put on a pedestal in society, you know? Like they're the ultimate goal, the only way to capture true success and happiness–a fulfilling life. They're not more important than any other relationship, though. People treat those without soulmates like they're lacking somehow, but they can have just as good a life as the rest of us. And, even if someone's got a soulmate, that doesn't mean their family, their friends, their romantic partners–whoever it is that isn't the soulmate–aren't  _ just _ as important to them." Virgil breathed, bunching the sleeve into a fist. 

"You're expected to stay with your soulmate too. From the moment you meet them, you have to just stay by their side forever? Like, even if they're a huge dick? You're expected to fall in love with them, marry. Soulmates don't even have to be romantic, but, hey, society somehow made  _ that _ assumption happen." 

Virgil let go of his sleeve, pulling and tugging it again in every which way. Roman couldn't help but watch the motion, almost afraid to see Virgil's face as he took a long breath, slumping.

"I realize I'm breaking the rules, by the way," he said. Roman looked back up, unable to help himself. Virgil was staring at some point across the room. "This bothers me, and I'm talking about it. Oh well." 

"You're good," Roman managed, really unsure what to say in this situation. He felt it was time he said  _ something _ though.

Virgil's eyes darted back at the sound of his voice, fixing somewhere over Roman's shoulder before zoning out again. 

"What  _ bothers me _ the most, though, isn't any of that." Virgil swallowed. "I liked my soulmate. I liked him a lot. But, obviously, that's never going to happen."

_ Ah _ , Roman thought.  _ Yes, the elephant in the room.  _

Of course it was a sore topic. Virgil was dead. 

"What was he like?" Roman asked. "Your Red?" 

"Passionate." 

Roman nodded. Classic red pen. 

"Creative. Energetic. Like, holy shit, calm down a moment, man. I can barely read your handwriting," Virgil laughed, and Roman joined in. Just a short chuckle to them each, but Virgil was smiling and that made Roman feel light and airy. "Smart. I know he'd question that, but he's always saying things so out-of-the-box and innovative. And he makes up these nicknames for me just out of thin air."

"Brave, though that's his word. I call it stupid. It's charming, though. How stubborn-headed he is when he's determined to do good."

"He likes theater and literature and art. Like I think I mentioned before, he's the one who I talked Shakespeare with. He tried so hard to get me to like Shakespeare's poetry, but I never caught on."

Virgil sighed, content smile slipping. His words grew quieter.

"We were going to meet one day. Not sure when, but we both wanted to," Virgil twisted his sleeve, and it looked like it might cut off his circulation. "I just hope he doesn't think I abandoned him or something." 

"When soulmates stop responding, the other usually figures they're, you know…" Roman offered, as morbid as it was. It wasn't the ideal comforter, but it was the best he had. 

Virgil nodded. "Yeah. He probably figured." 

They were silent once more. Roman watched as Virgil continued fidgeting with his sleeves and understood, at last, why he must have been doing it. The habit to look, it must have died hard. Even with empty arms.

"What do  _ you _ think?" Virgil asked suddenly, and Roman looked up. 

"What do I think what?" 

"What do you think…" Virgil asked, trailing off as he thought of what he was about to say. Obviously, he already knew. So he must have been unsure if he  _ should _ say it. He went on regardless. "What do you think happened to  _ your _ soulmate?" 

Roman sucked in a breath. That… hadn't been what he'd expected Virgil to ask. 

So he closed his eyes, begged his voice to stay steady. "I hope they're safe and happy somewhere."

"Alive?"

"I hope."

Roman opened his eyes to find Virgil nodding. He was mulling it over, probably letting his mind eat it alive like every other scrap he took in. 

Virgil shook his head. "My soulmate hasn't given up either." 

"What?" Roman asked, brow furrowing. "How can you tell?" 

"He…" Virgil said, stopping like it was impossible to get past his lips. He opened and closed his mouth, once, twice, before stopping, staring into his lap once more. 

Then, wordlessly, he raised his arm and pulled back the sleeve, thrusting the limb his way. Roman, baffled, stared at it like some strange dead gift your cat might bring home. 

Until he saw it. Really saw it. 

"I can tell because he still writes me," Virgil said. 

'He' being the careful scrawl of red across his wrist, word by word, not in the beautiful cursive the soulmate had learned from a young age to make his Purple happy, nor the frantic scribble the soulmate had cried his hopes and pleas for him to come back. No. Careful lettering, tiny and insecure and doubtful, but writing, always writing, nonetheless. 

'He' as in the very familiar shade of red. 'He' as in the very familiar handwriting of forgotten dotless 'i's and big 'o's and loopy 'y's and 'g's that didn't connect. 'He' as in those very  _ very _ familiar words on a wrist thrust under Roman's nose. 

'He' as in Red. 'He' as in Virgil's soulmate who had never given up. 'He' as in a soulmate who had stood in his bathroom that morning, alternating between looking at the dark circles under his eyes and the black pen in hand, shaking with his nerves before he slowly, carefully, lowered it to try again. 'He' as in a soulmate who kept trying, again and again. 

'He'... as in  _ Roman _ . 

It felt like the world had spun its course in the time he stared at it, yet he barely remembered the mere seconds it'd been there before the arm was snatched away. Still shell-shocked, Roman looked up at Virgil, tucking his sleeve back into place, face… dark, unreadable behind his bangs. 

"If only I could explain to him," Virgil sighed, still not looking up. "But he'll never get closure. I guess I just need to hope he'll move on even without it. It's been- it's been… I don't know how long it's been, but he hasn't given up. Red's not really the type to give up." 

Acting on impulse, as Roman was so used to doing, he reached out. Because if this was true… if he really was Red…

Roman could barely think of it. Couldn't accept it, even with the evidence right there. Instead he latched onto something safe, something curious, that held his mind impossibly tight until both Roman and Virgil gasped in sync.

His eyes had been on Virgil's and the hair obscuring it. And he was done with the barrier. Roman wanted to see, wanted to know–were there answers in those eyes? Would he see Purple in those eyes?

When he reached out, he hadn't expected anything to happen. Hadn't expected the soft texture of Virgil's hair, slipping between his fingers, skin on skin when Roman tucked it back, trailing along the forehead and temple, resting far too long on the shell of his ear. Suddenly, Virgil's eyes were unguarded, shocked, locked onto the invisible hand that caressed him.

"How- how are you doing that?" he asked with a shaky voice. 

"I don't know," Roman told the truth. Then, realizing he was still there, still touching without so much as a nod from Virgil, nevermind the man couldn't  _ see _ it coming- Roman ripped his hand away. "I'm sorry," he apologized, words tumbling out in a quick cut. 

Virgil sounded slightly dazed when he said, "It's fine." 

Roman looked at his eyes now that Virgil's hair was at least a little tamed, impossibly close in their proximity. He had so much in this one moment, yet all Roman yearned for was their eyes to meet. 

So many times he'd been thankful Virgil couldn't see him. To hide a blush, a smile. But now all he wanted was to be seen. He wanted Virgil to  _ see _ him.

Because he was Virgil, the sarcastic ghost that had saved their asses from some rickety stairs before they’d even spoken. The guy who avoided personal topics like the plague, except for today, except for this moment when he had shown Roman…

Shown him his soulmarks.

Roman looked again and couldn't fathom how he hadn't seen it before. Maybe it had been just a bit too coincidental. Maybe a tad hopeful. Maybe altogether impossible. 

But he was talking to a ghost. What's impossible anyway?

No. No, it wasn't impossible that Virgil and Purple could be one in the same. 

In fact, Roman now couldn't imagine it any other way.

He couldn't help but laugh, a short gust of air and a high pitched noise. "This is insane."

"You're telling me," Virgil said, eyes still so clear. He looked almost… vulnerable without his hair in the way. Still tall and defiant and snarky, but also softer. "You shouldn't be able to touch me. I'm a ghost. There's nothing to touch." 

" _ You _ can touch things," Roman pointed out half-heartedly. Honestly, he didn't much care about the logistics of it all. They were able to touch now. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? 

Why focus on this at all? They were  _ soulmates _ .

"That takes a lot of focus and energy. And I have power over that, not you." 

"Virgil," Roman cut in, wanting to say it,  _ needing _ to. "What we were talking about before…"

"What?" Virgil asked, eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, soulmates?" His distractedness grew a bit sheepish as he seemed to recall. When he ducked his head, Roman's hard work slipped back into his face, the hair mussed more so now with the movement. Roman was too nervous to fix it again. 

"I'm sorry for suddenly dumping that all on you. I don't know what I was thinking," Virgil said, shaking his head to himself. 

Roman's smile slipped. "What do you mean?" 

Virgil didn't know yet though. Roman had to tell him! 

He… had to tell him, right?

"Just…" Virgil hunkered down even further, shoulders reached up to his ears. "Just drop it, alright? I know that's shitty of me–suddenly telling you all this stuff and not letting you at least ask questions. But this was a mistake. I just want to forget it." 

But… they were soulmates. Roman had to tell him. He couldn't just… just  _ drop it _ . Maybe if it really was just a Virgil thing–something Roman had no right to poke his nose into–he'd let it go. But this involved Roman now. This was between the two of them. He  _ had _ to say something.

When he opened his mouth, nothing came out. 

“But, for what it’s worth,” Virgil said, fidgeting with his sleeve again. Roman may never look at it the same–now that he knew what was under it. “Thanks for listening.”

“Of-of course,” Roman stuttered. He wasn’t going to say it. Why couldn’t he get his stupid mouth to say it? “It’s- You know, it’s getting late…”

“Oh,” Virgil practically jumped up. “Yeah, of course. You wouldn’t want to get tagged by your RA.”

“No. I guess I wouldn’t…” Roman said, throat a damn, holding back the waters of a flood. He stood with Virgil, knees creaking after sitting on the floor for so long. His eyes kept gravitating towards Virgil’s sleeves.

His soulmate…

Really.

Virgil walked him to the window, and it was maybe a little awkward between them. There were obviously words they wanted to say, and obviously neither were going to say them.

“I don’t know if I can come tomorrow,” Roman said instead. He didn’t have rehearsal or class or any upcoming due dates. But he said it.

“That’s fine. Not like you have to come,” Virgil shrugged. “Not like I can keep up with time anyway. You could come in a week and tell me it’d been two days, and I would believe you.”

Roman laughed a little. “I wouldn’t lie like that.”

Virgil shrugged again. “Just saying you could.”

“I won’t, though,” Roman said.

There was silence between them again. Virgil glimpsed his way, and Roman was terrified of whatever that look in his eye meant. It was unreadable, but it wasn’t necessarily  _ bad _ . 

“I’ll see you in a couple days,” he said quickly, suddenly feeling suffocated in the musty house.

He ducked out the window, barely hearing Virgil’s goodbye as he left. 

It was on auto-pilot that he managed to get across town. As soon as he made it to the dorm, he burst into his bathroom and locked himself in, grateful that his roommate was busy at his desk.

He pulled down his sleeves and stared–one soulmark, that was all there was. But it was unmistakable, undeniable. Those words were on another wrist across town.

Could it be possible? After all this time… Roman stumbled across his soulmate at random? His soulmate was someone he’d been talking with for weeks now, and he hadn’t even noticed? 

And his soulmate… was dead.

Roman clenched his eyes shut tight, took a slow, shaky breath in. 

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I got caught up trying to figure out if Roman was nineteen or twenty. I had him marked as twenty, but I thought about him being a summer baby and he’s actually probably nineteen? Because if Virgil turned eighteen their Senior year, then died that May, then Roman would have turned eighteen that June. A year would go by; he’d turn nineteen next June, then they’d meet that September. Does that make sense?


	3. a soul that my soul finds beautiful

Virgil wasn’t bothered by the dust, so he decided to clear out some of it while Roman was gone. As funny as watching Roman cough up a storm was, it also looked a bit painful. Virgil was bored, and the broom was still there, so why not?

The dust clouds kicked up around him, but Virgil merely hummed to himself, old songs and forgotten lyrics stuck in his head, new songs that Roman had shown him flowing naturally around him, as if he’d known them all of his days. He thought of how much better things were now with Roman around. He wasn’t as bored. Or as hopeless. He didn’t forget quite as often when Roman was sat beside him–and maybe that was the effect of having a living person hang around.

Or maybe it was the effect of having Roman around.

It was funny. Virgil had never felt so… calm, content around another person. But, as snarky as Virgil could be, Roman didn’t bat an eye. And as loud or abrasive as Roman could be, it didn’t deter Virgil in the slightest. Virgil wasn’t afraid of what Roman would think. 

If he came off sharp or weak or uninterested or not talkative, it didn’t seem to matter. Roman didn’t judge him so easily. They’d had their run-ins, their squabbles, their frustrations, but not once in it all did Virgil feel that sickening crunch of isolation and anxiety, that knowledge that he’d fucked things up, that desperation to salvage things by changing who he was, how he talked, what he said.

There was no reason to conform and no reason to push away.

It was just them.

Roman had listened to him. About his parents and his soulmate. He'd trusted Virgil with the same, and with things about his life, like stories of his brother or of school. He described the performance he was auditioning for, the role he'd been practicing. Sometimes, he practiced there, but Virgil couldn't see it.

Roman could see him, but he still couldn't see Roman. It didn't seem fair to Virgil.

But he remembered a hand at the edge of his vision, unable to focus on it but from the corner of his eye. When skin had pressed to skin and his hair was swept back from his face. 

The touch had been surprising. The glimpse of something there, something visual, that had been exciting. 

The urge to grab that hand, entwine it with his own, fingers sliding between fingers and palm against palm, that had been shaking. 

Virgil was growing close to Roman. And he still didn't feel like hiding, like backing away, running somewhere not even Roman could see. 

Nothing about Roman scared him. He was a comforting presence. Virgil wasn't scared of the way Roman would suddenly jump up and startle him from his thoughts. He wasn't scared of how loud Roman could get, even when practicing for performances, projecting his voice into the reverberating house. He wasn't scared of how vulnerable Roman made him, under eyes Virgil couldn't see, the smile in his voice, the quick wit of his replies. 

Nothing about Roman scared him… but this. 

Because Virgil knew this feeling. He'd felt it once before, drawing a purple heart on his wrist just to show he was there. Holding his arms close to his heart and trading secrets throughout childhood, making promises as teenagers. One day, they'd meet. One day, they'd connect eyes, say their names.

One day, Virgil wouldn't have to push comfort through ink, but be there by Red's side. It was the feeling of wanting him to be the happiest he could be. To be safe. To be warm and loved.

Virgil had felt what it was like to be in love before. And this was it. 

He was falling in love with Roman. 

Who was alive. 

Who he couldn't even see. 

Who he hadn't even realized he liked in the first place. 

There was an itch on the inside of his arm, the phantom drag of the tip of a pen. He pulled back his sleeve, watched red crawl along his arm. He hadn’t seen Red write like this in so long.

In big, loopy letters. Happy cursive. Careful but free. A boisterous and large scrawl. 

_ You’re still the soul that my soul finds beautiful. _

Virgil was walking a dangerous path. But there was no way he could stop it.

-/-

Roman stared at his ceiling for a while. It sort of freaked out his roommate, who knew him as a busybody type guy. If Roman wasn’t asleep, he was out of the room–at the cafeteria or library or theater… or the haunted house, though his roommate didn’t know that one.

But here Roman was, sighing at his ceiling and clutching his arms close to his chest. They were blank. Even when Purple hadn’t been writing for those past two years, Roman hardly ever left them blank. While he’d given up on his desperate, panicked covering of his arms, trying to gain the attention of a soulmate long gone, Roman still wrote little things.

To let Purple know he hadn’t given up.

Virgil had looked so anguished at the knowledge–knowing his Red hadn’t given up. How was Roman supposed to know, though? How could he have known, of all circumstances, that his soulmate was not only dead but a ghost. A ghost who still got his soulmarks. A ghost who couldn’t write any back.

But what had Roman thought anyway? That Purple had gotten tired of him? Had given up on him? Had decided Roman wasn’t worth it?

After all of that, why would Roman continue bothering Purple?

What had Roman been expecting from continuing to write to him? 

Either his soulmate was dead and wouldn’t see the marks, or alive and was ignoring them. Both pointless scenarios. Both futile attempts for Roman to hang onto something long gone.

Yet, there had never been a sign. When he and Purple fought, they made up eventually. They were always honest with each other. If Purple had been pissed enough to just leave…

Roman knew that wasn’t it. He’d  _ known  _ something was wrong.

None of that speculation did him any good now. He knew what had happened. The worst had happened–Purple- No, Virgil was dead. He must have read every single mark Roman had written over the years and felt  _ guilty  _ over them. How could Roman have done that? What had he been expecting out of leaving mark after mark with no reply? Mark after mark of begging, pleading for any response?

Virgil had witnessed Roman break.

Roman groaned, dragging his hands along his face. It wasn’t good for his skin but, at this point, he was taking a sick day. It was three in the afternoon and he still hadn’t gotten out of bed.

For the second day in a row.

Oh god, he was useless.

When he retracted his hands, he looked at his arms. So bare. So blank. He longed to reach for a pen, but he didn’t think he could write anything without breaking it. He was nervous to say anything else. It brought a sick feeling to his stomach to do so.

But he felt frozen looking at them so blank.

He shouldn’t write anymore, should he? Virgil didn’t want them. He didn’t want to know that his soulmate was still out there, waiting for him. But wouldn’t it be suspicious to stop now? Right when Virgil had shown  _ him  _ his marks? 

Could Roman cause Virgil any more anguish though?

Roman dropped his arms, eyes heading back to the ceiling. They were barely there a second before his bedroom door smashed open, and Roman bolted straight upright, eyes like saucers when he took in the sight of his brother, heaving like he’d scaled the four flights of stairs up to his floor instead of taking the elevator like a normal person.

“Why didn’t you just take the elevator?” Roman asked, a breath whooshing out of him now that he realized he wasn’t under attack. You never know when you’re going to get caught in a dorm nerf war. 

Remus slammed the door behind him. Roman sat up again, glaring at him. 

“Hey, I’m not paying for anything you break!”

“Mickie said you haven’t left your bed in two days,” Remus accused, pointing a finger at him. Roman’s teeth latched onto the inside of his cheek.  _ Shit. _

“Remus, it’s not what you-”

“Out of bed,” Remus said, not hearing it. He pulled the blanket off of Roman, leaving his legs exposed to the cooler air. A chill went through him. “Take a shower. Or else.”

“I swear it’s not-” Roman tried again, but Remus shook his head.

“I don’t care what it is. This habit leads to one place, little brother.”

Roman frowned. “I’m technically older than you.”

“Then act like it,” Remus said. Yikes, why did he sound like Mom all of a sudden? “I’m the stinky one of us two.” Ah, there it is.

“Fine, fine,” Roman said, swinging his legs out of bed. He acted as dignified as he could, just to show Remus that he actually  _ was  _ fine. This was nothing like back then, and Roman would prove it. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Then we’re going to have a brother day!” Remus said, sounding too innocent for his own good. 

Roman shook his head. “I told you I’m-”

“Do you have anything due tonight or tomorrow?”

Roman ground his teeth. He knew where this was going. “No.”

“Rehearsal?”

Roman sighed. “No.”

“Perfect. Princess and the Frog is on Netflix. I’m going to get snacks while you’re in the shower,” Remus said, bouncing toward the door. Roman didn’t say anything. At this point, there was no arguing. His brother was a hurricane. “See you when I get back!”

The door to Roman’s room resounded with his brother’s departure. If Roman  _ really  _ wasn’t feeling like his fabulous self, he would have headplanted back onto his bed, but he was determined to prove his brother wrong.

So he turned to the bathroom and went in.

He managed a nice, hot shower and to find some clean track shorts before his brother got back. Never was Roman more thankful for getting a dorm with its own bathroom.

“If there’s deodorant in that bag, get out of my room,” Roman warned as soon as his brother walked in. Remus stopped in the doorway, looking torn. Roman sighed, disappointed. “You must get a normal snack one day,” he said, waving his brother in. Remus trotted on by, dropping the goods on Roman’s newly made bed.

“You’re clean, and we are once again balanced,” Remus said, nodding seriously before going right back to his manic-looking smile. “I got you Twizzlers.”

“Brilliant,” Roman said, scooting back to the corner of his bed. “Hand them here.”

Remus threw them his way. Roman caught them and pulled his laptop closer, flipping through titles in search of Princess and the Frog. It had, admittedly, been a while since their last brother day. Janus wasn’t there, and Mickie wasn’t at his desk as usual. Remus must have made that happen. Roman just hoped he hadn’t scarred his roommate.

Once he found the movie, he ripped open his bag of candy. Remus settled on a normal candy to start with, leaving the deodorants for later, much to Roman’s relief. If his brother got that all over his bed, he would riot.

They must have talked over half of the movie, but that’s what movie night was like with the Prince brothers. That, and lots of singing. Roman hadn’t noticed it, but he hadn’t been smiling all day, not until Remus broke into the first song, swinging his arms out with flair, not until they took turns, trying to sing louder. 

When the movie ended, Roman was still smiling. He was sort of sorry for it to be over.

“Thanks, asshat,” he said, folding his arms behind his head while they listened to the credits roll. “Maybe I did need a brother day.”

“Anything for you, fairest bastard sibling,” Remus said, diving for the computer. “What next?”

Roman blinked over at him. “You want to watch another?”

“Do you not?” Remus asked, quirking a brow. And, yeah, Roman guessed that was fair. Usually they would have at least four movies lined up.

“No, let’s do so,” Roman agreed, rubbing at his arms for a moment. He had covered them with sleeves before Remus had shown back up, ready to forget them for the day. This dilemma wasn’t going away, so why not ignore it for a while?

He didn’t expect Remus to notice this.

“Is it about him?”

Roman froze. He’d been looking at the wall, zoning out a bit while his brother scrolled through movies. As his eyes drew back, he followed to where Remus was looking: his arms.

Roman chewed on his lip. “About who?” he asked, forgetting all his years of acting, so his voice came out nervous. What was the point in being an actor if he couldn’t act his way out of these situations?

“Ro,” Remus said, quirking a brow, like he does. Roman deflated.

“Maybe,” he mumbled. He  _ really  _ didn’t want to talk about this. Remus would want him to cry or something, be sad that his soulmate was gone and never coming back. Roman wouldn’t tell him the truth. 

Out of all people, Remus would probably believe him if he did. He knew about the ghost and the house, and how Roman had been visiting there for the past month. Roman just didn’t want to talk about it. He was done being the family tragedy. With actual proof that his soulmate was dead? Roman wasn’t going there.

“You wanna talk about it?” Remus offered, nonchalant. Roman focused on the laptop screen.

“Not really,” he said. 

Remus was quiet for a second, and Roman felt relieved. His family had never been ones to put up a fight when Roman was hurting. They sort of babied him that way, which pissed him off, but worked in his favor too. Which is why it came as a surprise when Remus did not, in fact, drop it.

“You know you can talk about it with me, right?” Remus said, practically demanded, eyes zeroing in on his brother with deadly accuracy.

“Yeah,” Roman said, routine answer. “Of course.”

“ _ Really _ ?” Remus asked.

“Yeah,” Roman stressed, confused at how insistent his brother was. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve talked about your soulmate since, like, the first month he stopped talking to you.” Roman flinched at the bluntness. He stared wide-eyed at his brother, not treating him like glass, not  _ pitying  _ him. It left Roman off balance, this sudden shift in behavior.

Remus had never been one to act careful. He was a rhino in a chandelier store, or whatever that saying was. He said the first thing that popped in his head. He said things to shock people, to embarrass and anger and frighten. He didn’t pad things… until everything with Roman’s soulmate.

“Maybe because everyone acted so  _ weird _ ,” Roman said. “I barely recognized you when you started watching what you said around me.” Roman laughed, like it was a joke, but he hadn’t said anything so truthful to his brother in years.

“You… didn’t want that?” Remus asked, sounding unsure. Very not his brother, very un-Remus-like. Roman bit his lip, knowing at least this time it didn’t come from hiding, from trying to protect Roman. It came from Remus’ own vulnerability.

So Roman just shook his head. “I appreciate you guys trying, but, no, I didn’t want that.”

“What do you want then?” Remus asked. Roman looked up, saw the sincerity there, the determination. 

“What?” he asked.

“What do you want?” Remus asked again. “I fucked up last time. Tell me what to do not to fuck up again.”

“You… want me to tell you what to do?” Roman asked, skeptical. Remus laughed.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I want…” Roman started, thinking. What  _ did  _ he want? There was so much he’d thought to himself throughout the years he’d change. He didn’t want them to be so quiet, so careful around him. He didn’t want to be alone. “Purple was my best friend, and when he was gone and everyone else started acting like- like  _ that  _ around me, I felt really alone. You weren’t acting like yourself and I felt… like my brother had gone away too.”

Roman looked at his brother. Remus looked more serious than he ever had, mouth set in a grim line. It wasn’t a strange look on him, though. It wasn’t one of those un-Remus-like looks. It was the look of his brother when he realized Roman had broken his arm falling out of a tree. It was the look of his brother realizing he’d made Roman really angry by ruining their trip to Disney. It was the look of his brother when he realized someone had teased him on the playground for playing make-believe with the girls instead of basketball with the boys.

It was the look of his brother when Roman had told him Purple hadn’t written in a week and he was  _ scared _ . 

“So,” Roman breathed, steeling himself, “What I want is for things to be normal. Between us. I don’t want you to act super careful around me. I don’t want to avoid the topic of soulmates. I just… want things to be normal again, okay?”

And Remus, oh god, Remus’ mouth widened into a fanged grin (when in the world had Remus filed those down?). His brother nodded. “Normal it is then, little brother.”

“As normal as life with  _ you  _ can get,” Roman scoffed. “And I’m still technically older than you.”

“American Horror Story.” Remus pointed to the screen, ignoring Roman. Roman just rolled his eyes.

By the time Remus left that night, they’d watched a complete season of the show. Roman was a little freaked, but he still enjoyed it. And Remus definitely loved it.

When Mickie walked in, he crashed immediately onto his own bed. He must have been busy all day, being out of the dorm. Roman knew the guy was super introverted, so that kind of thing must have been exhausting. Roman reminded himself to thank the guy later. Maybe he could buy him a pizza or something. 

But Roman wasn’t tired. Sure, he had been hanging out with his brother all day, which should have been enough to exhaust anyone, but, for some reason, Roman was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Like a mirror into that very morning.

Except, he didn’t feel as unsure anymore. Roman felt like there were pieces in his brain that had nudged into place as they’d watched Netflix all day, singing and nit-picking the films. But, more precisely, it probably had to do with their talk.

Roman reached over to his bedside table, dug around for the first pen he could find. It was a highlighter–orange. It’d be red in no time.

He uncapped it, pushed up his sleeve, set the tip to his skin. He took a breath and, in the dim light, did the best he could.

No more begging. No more sorrow. No more guilt or loneliness or emptiness. Roman wanted normal.

And normal didn’t only come from his family or his friends. It came from him too. Roman hadn’t felt right since Purple had left, and he hadn’t been acting it either. He’d been playing along to the same melody he’d thought everyone else was shoving at him. That wasn’t fair to Virgil.

Virgil was a freaking ghost. He probably could use a little normal too. 

Roman knew there really wasn’t such thing as normal. Even if he lived a life where ink on skin wasn’t magic or where he hadn’t met a ghost, normal was a subjective term that didn’t fit into any walk of life. But he wanted something steady, a place he could finally breathe. Talking about soulmates wouldn’t make the pain go away nor would avoiding it. And Roman was willing to bet that stopping leaving Virgil soulmarks wouldn’t make his pain go away, nor would continuing. 

Nothing made pain go away entirely. But Roman could do something to help it.

So, for the first time in a long time, Roman left his mark in big, swooping letters–calligraphy was like riding a bike, apparently. 

He was as careful as he could be, but it was sloppy in the dim light. Uneven and rushed and shaky where he’d been holding his arm up. But it was his best work yet.

_ You’re still the soul that my soul finds beautiful. _

-/-

Virgil gets more soulmarks. And they’re… different. They’re happier and bigger and… Virgil had no idea what happened, but he’s happy too. He’s always happier when Red is happy. 

He doesn't know what's going on, but there's no way he was going to ruin it. It worried him that Red was still clinging on, but perhaps this was the first step to getting better. Virgil could get behind that. If Red needed the soulbond to get over Virgil, to come to terms that his soulmate was never to write again, then Virgil would relish the marks as they came. 

After all, the first step to getting better with an unresponsive soulmate was also the first step to letting go. 

Virgil knew it wouldn't do for Red to hang on forever, even if he was able to fix his dead situation. Would the bond repair after being resurrected? And what could Virgil even say?

He imagined pulling out a marker, scrawling a long line of black along his skin, purple shimmering into it not long after. Maybe Red would respond back immediately, wondering where he had been.

And  _ what would Virgil say? _

Sorry, I was dead but I got better. Thanks for sticking by. Wanna still be soulmates when you're going to think this is an obvious lie?

Red was bound to hate him forever after the anguish Virgil had brought on the guy. 

But Red didn't seem to hate him yet. He was leaving him marks, and Virgil couldn't bring himself to look away. He'd never been able to. 

_ Good morning! _ the next one read, simple and sweet. Virgil traced over it with a reverent finger. 

_ I just ate a whole bowl of pistachios. Save me _ , read another, just a couple hours later. 

_ I think someone's keeping a dog in their dorm. Good for them. Dangerous, considering pets aren't allowed. But good for them _ , said yet another. 

Something had changed with Red. As difficult as time was for Virgil, he knew these all came in a lot quicker than usual. They were happier than usual. Some of them came in Red's old, still beautiful calligraphy, while some were scrawled with a quicker pen, more care-free than the tiny, insecure letters that had circled Virgil's arms before. 

It made the days without Roman go by faster. According to Roman, he'd only been gone for two days, catching up with schoolwork and his brother. They'd watched Disney's  _ The Princess and the Frog _ , which came as a relief to Virgil. He didn't care what they watched to be honest, but it was easier when it was something he was familiar with. 

It was also good to know the world hadn't moved on too much. He still didn't know how long it'd been, but he was hoping not too long. He'd like to live again in his own generation. It haunted his dreams sometimes–thinking he'd manage to live again only to find decades had gone by, a century. All his loved ones aged or lost, him long forgotten. 

And he'd be lost in all the changes of society, technology. Would his high school diploma still be valid? Could he go to college? Would anyone actually believe he was who he said he was when he had obviously not aged? 

But, back to Roman. And the present. And Princess and the Frog. Virgil was relieved when he could talk about the movie with Roman, but mostly he was thankful Roman had come back. 

Sue him, but a part of Virgil had almost doubted he would. Just when he was growing attached to him, he'd seemed to scare the guy away. Before Roman had left, he'd sounded so spooked. It must have been because Virgil had shared too much, of course. There was a reason he'd barred personal questions, yet he'd still gone and blabbed his whole tragic story. 

Especially when soulmates wasn't the best topic for Roman already. 

But he'd told Ro he wouldn't treat him like glass. Virgil wouldn't avoid soulmate talk just because of what had happened with Roman's own. 

That didn't necessarily mean Virgil should have jumped at him so fast with all his own baggage. But something in Virgil just couldn't help it. He felt comfortable with Roman. Like maybe, not now but one day, he could tell him anything. 

Virgil was dangerously close to telling Roman anything. 

His mouth had really run off ahead of him on this one. But no taking it back now. Maybe, with any luck, they'd just pretend it hadn't happened. The important thing was Roman had come back. 

The next few times, at least, that Roman came by they hadn't talked about it. Red continued to leave random, light-hearted notes on him too. Things were going… well–too well in Virgil's opinion. 

Why couldn't he ever be content?

"Halloween's coming up," Roman remarked one day, words forming around a bit of resistance. 

"Just because I can't see you doesn't mean you can be gross. Keep your mouth shut while you eat or you're going to choke," Virgil snipped, watching as bit by bit of Roman's pretzel bag depleted. It was weird seeing food disappear into thin air, but objects were always easier to see than living beings. "And why should I care about Halloween?" 

That was a stupid remark, of course. Halloween was Virgil's favorite holiday, ghost or not. It wasn't like he could celebrate it nowadays though. Last year, he’d only known it arrived when people broke in for a genuine haunting experience. Virgil never obliged. 

"You're a ghost! Isn't it the one day of the year you can really vibe with the living?" Roman asked, this time voice clear of obstruction. 

"You mean where I can walk among the living?" Virgil asked, recalling the old myth. 

"Yeah, like American Horror Story style!" Roman exclaimed. "Is that not an actual thing?" 

"No, AHS is not an actual thing," Virgil said. He could already hear Roman going to protest so he cut in with a chuckle. "I know what you mean. I don't know if I can leave the house on Halloween. Never tried." 

"Never tried?" Roman asked, sounding almost offended at the notion. "Why not?" 

Virgil shrugged, knowing Roman would see–well, if he was watching. He could be paying attention to his food, or across the room. The thing was, Virgil had no idea, and it came naturally to him. It was only weird that he had no way of knowing–that Ro could look at him but Virgil couldn't look back, like he was on TV. No, not like that. More like a video call where one person had the camera off. 

"Guess I've never thought to," he said. Which was true. Why try when there was little reason to leave? Boredom? Okay, sure, leave. But where would he go? What if someone recognized him? 

He wasn't officially dead in most circles. According to Patton and Logan, Virgil Storm was filed under missing persons, not a body to be found. His body was being… kept somewhere. Apparently. For when they revived him.

It sounded creepy, so Virgil hadn't asked anymore from the reapers. 

If he showed up in the streets one town away from his home, especially with the university right by where any number of his high school peers could be attending, Virgil wouldn't have an excuse as to why. Heck, if he was resurrected he didn't know what he'd end up telling his parents. 

"We should try then!" Roman said, sounding too excited for Virgil's reservations. There was excited movement from his way, but when Virgil turned to get a proper look, it was already gone. "You need to get out of this house, Jack Scarington."

But Virgil was already shaking his head, the movement he’d seen leaving his mind. The movements had been happening a lot lately, just like Roman had described them. Flutters of images, quick across his eyes like the wind. "No thanks."

"Why not?" Roman whined. 

"I don't know what'll happen. What if I die again? I bet it's possible to die again," Virgil reasoned. Roman huffed. 

"You can't die again. That's like a double negative. Like, you can't be  _ more _ dead."

"If it's like a double negative, then wouldn't I be alive if I died twice?" Virgil asked. 

Roman frowned. "Double negative logic is too confusing to me."

"Agreed. Then I'll stay here. Have a nice Halloween." 

"Virgiiiilll," Roman whined. Virgil shook his head again. 

"Dude, seriously. No." 

Roman went silent at that, and Virgil worried he'd offended the guy. Did this really mean that much to him? It was just Halloween. He doubted it was  _ this guy's _ favorite holiday. 

Before Virgil could worry too much though, Roman spoke up, understanding in his voice. "Okay. Sorry, Virge." 

That stunned Virgil. For Roman to give up so easily. To not call him out on his odd behavior or say his worries were getting in the way, were silly–that he should forget them, try to overcome them–how was he supposed to get better if he didn't at least try to fight the anxieties? But Roman was different from his family. 

More than that, though–Roman had apologized. "Why are you sorry? It's not your fault," Virgil said. He was already worrying about the possibilities behind this–that Roman thought Virgil was afraid of  _ him _ , or felt guilty for Virgil's anxieties. 

The thought of guilt clogged up Virgil's throat. His parents had always thought it was their fault he was like this–like if they'd been telling him to blindly stand up to his fears at an earlier age he'd be magically better. 

Roman wasn't allowed to feel guilty because of  _ Virgil _ . 

"I pushed you," Roman explained. "I should have let it go when you said no." 

Virgil shook his head. "You didn't mean any harm by it." 

"Just because I didn't mean harm doesn't mean I didn't do it," Roman argued. His bag of pretzels moved to the side, and there was the sound of Roman moving closer. Virgil thought he may have seen something again, but it was probably the movement of the bag still in mind. The flickers didn't happen  _ that _ often. 

"Listen, Ro. You're good. Seriously," Virgil said, trying to emphasize the candor in the statement. "You recognize when you push too far and you pull back. And I will admit, sometimes I  _ do _ need a push. I hate it, especially in the way people tend to do it, but you seem to know my limits somehow. And you push me to do things for my sake, not just because I'm holding you back. So, let me say it again,  _ you're fine _ ."

Roman was quiet again. He seemed to do that when he was thinking, just take a moment for himself. Then, he opened his damn mouth. 

"I'm  _ fine _ , you say?" he asked, the tease distinct in his voice. And Virgil would have groaned, would have rolled his eyes, or snorted and covered his mouth, trying to pretend Roman was  _ not amusing _ at all. 

But he was stuck on the fact that he had seen Roman open his mouth. It was gone now, but there, for a second, he'd had a perfect view. Smirking lips, a curving jaw, eyes alive and somehow a little fond, hair swept back out of his face. 

Virgil had seen Roman.

And he was kind of beautiful.

"Uhh, Virgil?" Roman's voice brought him back. Wind passed over his face, and somehow, Virgil knew Roman was waving a hand in front of his face. Like that would do any good; Virgil couldn't see him.

Or… he usually didn't. 

Virgil supposed it was about time he got something from this too. He was the dang ghost. He should have been able to see Roman from the beginning. The reality of being a ghost sucked. 

"Sorry, I zoned out," he excused himself quickly. 

"I'd ask if it was my dashing looks, but, well, you know," Roman said, chuckling. Virgil was embarrassed at how close to the truth he actually was. 

"You know, you've gotten me to spill a lot of personal bull recently," Virgil noted, trying to shine the spotlight somewhere that wasn't his glowing face. Could he blush? No clue. "Don't you want a turn?" 

"A turn spilling all my personal details to the local undead?" Roman asked. "Anything you want to know?" 

Virgil shrugged. "Your favorite color," he said. "Your deepest darkest secrets. I'm not picky." 

"I don't have many deepest darkest secrets," Roman said. 

"Or any favorite colors?" Virgil asked, finding humor in the way Roman had focused on the more serious of the two. 

"Purple," Roman answered easily. Virgil's eyebrows shot up. 

"Really?" A noise of affirmation from Roman. "Funny, you seem more a red guy. But those color personality tests weren't ever based in science, I guess." 

"I'm a red guy too. It's my pen color. It's just not my favorite color, you know?" Roman said. "Purple just holds a lot of good memories for me." 

Virgil nodded, reaching for his sleeve. "I know what you mean. My favorite's red." It wouldn't take a lot of speculation for Roman to get why. Virgil had told him his soulmate's color is red. 

But Roman sounded surprised when he asked, "Really?" 

Virgil hummed in agreement. The thought of soulmates reminded him of Roman's, somewhere out there, maybe just like him. Well, not "just like." Being dead but not supposed to be… not a common situation. But maybe they were dead. Maybe they were even a ghost, having forgotten the life they lived. Did they still get their soulmarks or was that unique to Virgil's situation? 

Or maybe–hopefully–they were fine somewhere. Fine somewhere, and, if they knew what was good for them, with a good reason why they'd stopped writing to Roman. Virgil had seen how much it tore the guy up that his soulmate didn't reply. As a person who had witnessed someone mourning a soulmate first hand–not just Roman, but Red–Virgil couldn't imagine having the option to reply and not taking it. He couldn't imagine ignoring those pleas. 

Virgil nodded. "Yep. I'm a big sap. Alert the media." 

"That's…" Roman said, but trailed off. Virgil wished he could see his face, just to make sure he wasn't judging him. But his voice sounded fond. Virgil hoped for the best, even while his brain told him it was definitely the worst. 

"Sweet," Roman finally finished, voice no more than a whisper. 

"What about your soulmate?" Virgil asked, uncomfortable with the spotlight once more. "I mean, of course you don't have to talk about them, but you remember I'm cool with it, right? Safe place and all?" 

"Oh," Roman said. "Yeah." 

"You don't have to," Virgil said again, just to be clear.  _ God _ , why was he such an idiot? 

"No, I'd love to," Roman said. He sounded unbothered, much to Virgil's relief. He nodded, looking toward the stairs, waiting for Roman to continue. "They're still not replying, but that's alright." 

Virgil furrowed his brow, but kept his eyes away, afraid to pressure Roman somehow. Or maybe afraid to confront him. Virgil may not see him, but there was still something more when he looked his way. Something more serious. 

"I've learned recently that I don't want to be sad over it anymore. I can't exactly move on, but I know I want to make things better. Both for me and for my soulmate. So I'm handling the bond differently now." 

"How do you mean?" Virgil asked. 

"Just…" Roman trailed off, doing that quiet, in-thought thing again. He suddenly had the urge to reach out and take Roman's hand, just to show he was there–that it was alright here to say what he wanted. Virgil resisted. "Being kinder, I suppose." 

Virgil's brow lifted in surprise. He couldn't imagine Roman being unkind to those he cared about. Maybe unintentionally, saying something without thinking it through first, but not deliberately lashing out. Roman must have read his face because he went to explain. 

"I wasn't trying to be mean, but the things I said… they didn't help anyone. All I wanted was answers, but it just hurt when I got none back. And it must have hurt my soulmate too when he couldn't reply how I wanted."

"He should reply," Virgil said, unable to help the bite in his tone. It was hypocritical, he knew. If anyone should understand, it would be Virgil. 

But this guy had hurt Roman. And, you know, maybe Virgil was a little bitter. If this guy was alive, he had the opportunity for something Virgil couldn't have–maybe would never have again. 

It wasn't fair.  _ Least of all _ to Roman, who had done  _ nothing _ to deserve it. Who would do anything for his brother, who practiced day and night for his roles and dedicated himself wholly to any and all projects he took up, who would stand up for a stranger in the street because it was what was right.

Who was hurt deeply by his soulmate not replying, but wouldn't say. Who still stood so faithfully by them, even as they had hurt him over and over again. Who just wanted to love and be loved in return.

So, yeah, maybe Virgil wasn't feeling very forgiving. Roman deserved better than this.

"There's loads of reasons he might not be able to," Roman said. 

"Sure," Virgil said, almost biting his tongue off not to say anything more. Between him and Roman's soulmate, it was obvious who Roman would choose.

Virgil had never been good at sitting to the side, keeping his mouth shut. It was why he hadn't had many friends when he was alive. If he sensed bullshit, he'd say so. He'd go the whole friendship afraid of how he'd ruin it, then do it anyway. 

But, what he could say for himself was that he never regretted it. Some things needed to be said.

Like how much of a dick Roman's soulmate probably was. 

But that could wait for another day. 

Virgil startled at the feeling of something on his shoulder. A friendly weight, though not familiar. Virgil still wasn't used to the fact that Roman could somehow  _ touch him _ , despite the man having used the particular skill a handful of times already. 

But there was a hand, warm and grounding, the closest to sensation Virgil had experienced in a long time, resting on his shoulder. Subconsciously, his eyes drifted to it. 

And froze. 

Because there again was something he could see. Virgil could see Roman, and this time it lasted longer than a second. His eyes latched onto it–to the long fingers, the reassuring grip, the watch strapped over his right wrist. Buzzing in the back of his head, Virgil remembered Roman saying he was left-handed. 

Buzzing somewhere near that, Virgil recalled his soulmate was too. 

And on Roman's arm there was red pen, forming familiar words in big loopy cursive, and everything made sense. 

He followed the arm up to a shoulder, to a neck, to a face. The same that had flickered into vision so briefly earlier on full display, not fading, not flickering. Roman's features were morphed into something confused. Virgil's gaze locked onto his and there was a moment of surprise, before the understanding. 

Roman let out the softest of gasps, mouth forming a small o. Virgil couldn't focus on it for too long. Earlier he would have latched onto it, would have given his right arm to see Roman's face just a little bit longer, even if Roman teased him some more for it. 

But he was pulled, magnetized to Roman's arm again. So much red. So much happy script. Letters and words Virgil had been so relieved to see, if only for the fact that Red was  _ happy _ again. 

Red had started it after Virgil told Roman about his soulmate–had shown him  _ his  _ arm. 

"Virgil-" Roman said, retracting the arm. 

_ He  _ was Roman's dick soulmate.

"You knew," Virgil said, voice tight, eyes still on the space the arm had left. Somehow, even with the shock of it all, it was the first thing he said. It was perhaps the most important piece to him right then.

Roman had known. For at least a week if not more. He'd been writing to Virgil, talking to Virgil, all this time and he hadn't  _ told him _ . Told him they were soulmates. 

"I- I did," Roman said, not even trying to deny it. At least he could see how futile that would be. 

Virgil jumped to his feet. Roman's face contorted into pain and desperation. Virgil had wanted to see Roman for so long. Now he wished he'd just disappear. 

"The window's over there," he said gruffly, then barreled towards the stairs. Roman shot to his feet too, chasing after. 

"Please, can we talk?" he pleaded, and the sick thing was, Virgil could practically hear those words from his arms. Years and years of Red begging him to reply, now ringing in his ears. 

Virgil twisted in place, almost causing Roman to run into him. Virgil stared the guy down, despite being ever so slightly shorter. 

It hurt to see him now. His friend with only a voice, now with eyes that hurt to look into. His soulmate with only words, now in front of him, with a body and a name. 

Their first words to each other had not been their names. It hadn't been special. They hadn't been ready. 

Virgil had never wanted anything perfect, never wanted anything specific. But he'd wanted that. Wanted to decide when to meet, wanted to give his name and his face and his voice on his own terms. On  _ their _ own terms. They were supposed to decide this  _ together _ . 

But, now, not only had fate run away with the script, Roman had too. They weren't in this together. 

Virgil should have known that when he'd left life behind before Red. He should have known they couldn't do these things together–not when Red needed to live a long, healthy life, and Virgil was doomed to nothing. 

Still.  _ Still _ , somehow Virgil felt betrayed. Betrayed that Roman had kept this to himself, let Virgil continue to think his soulmate would never know what happened to him. Betrayed that after all Roman's talk of not wanting to be held like a fragile doll, he had decided to do it to Virgil anyway.

Betrayed that Roman didn't trust him enough to help each other through this. Together. 

If anything, they should have been facing this together. 

"I don't see why you'd want to talk when you were fine being quiet about this all before," Virgil said, crossing his arms. 

"I didn't know what to do!" Roman argued. 

"Well, bravo. You did spectacular."

Roman frowned. "You're being immature."

"And lying about not being someone's soulmate  _ is _ mature?" 

"I didn't lie," Roman said. 

"Lies of omission are still lies."

"Maybe if you'd let me talk you'd hear that I'm trying to  _ apologize _ ."

"Has it occurred to you that maybe I don't want your apology?" Virgil practically yelled. He turned again to the staircase. Roman never followed him up–not after Virgil had stopped Remus from stomping through them the first day. 

"Fuck off, Roman," Virgil said. "And don't bother writing anymore." 

With that, he disappeared up the steps.

-/-

Roman shouldn't have been cursing himself for wearing short sleeves that day. Keeping this a secret from Virgil was why Virgil was so mad in the first place. 

Still, Roman couldn't help but feel a bit stupid for it. 

He'd seen the weird looks over the past few days. The lingering gaze in his direction, confused and trying to focus on something. Roman knew if he could see Virgil, of course Virgil would eventually have to see him. It seemed only logical. 

But Roman hadn't enjoyed seeing his soulmarks like this for a while. He wanted them on full display, so when his eyes graced past them he could feel that shot of happiness, that sweet dip of adrenaline as all the happy chemicals raced through his veins. 

What was better were the looks he'd seen from Virgil lately. No, not the confused ones. Not the ones Roman should have been wary of. Virgil's own little smiles, his sneaky glances at his arms, the light in his eyes when he realized another mark was being drawn in. Yes, Roman had written to Virgil while sitting right in front of him. Yes, he knew how dumb that was. 

Making Virgil happy, though–that was a feeling like no other. 

Now he'd made Virgil angry. That was a feeling like no other as well, though not one that Roman would recommend. 

He couldn't blame him. After years of wandering what had happened, waiting for his soulmate to come back, Roman would have flipped a lid if his soulmate did something like this to him. He wished he could just take it back, go to the day he'd found out and immediately tell Virgil. Roman wished he'd have said something before now.

Roman left the house for a while, wandering around town. Virgil was the kind of guy who needed space to deal with his emotions. While Roman would have needed someone around, even the very person he was angry at, to sort through it all, Virgil was different. Roman would have felt suffocated by the loneliness, but Virgil would have felt claustrophobic without the space. 

He didn't go back to his dorm because, as much as Roman wanted to give Virgil that space, it wasn't in his nature to completely leave. He roamed by the house, winding in and out of local shops, around the park, across some faraway campus buildings. 

He tried to calm himself down just as much. Roman looked for distractions, sang under his breath, watched the stars peek out from behind the dusk. 

Roman gave it a few hours, then he approached the house again, rounded it and climbed through the window. 

It was always silent, but something about it now felt deadly. Silent as the grave, they said. Surely with Virgil being a ghost and all, it should always be that way. But it wasn't. 

Roman stepped carefully into the living room, which was already collecting dust once more. The further into the house he walked, the darker it became in the encroaching evening, so Roman flipped on his phone's flashlight. 

Virgil was nowhere in sight. That must have meant he was still upstairs. 

No matter. 

Roman walked to the stairs and sat down, back against the wall, head resting on the rail. He sighed and closed his eyes.

It was time to wait it out. 

"You're noisy when you come in," a voice from above complained.

Guess Roman wouldn't be waiting at all. 

He looked up to find Virgil leaning over the railing, arms and torso possibly the only things keeping him from tipping right over it. Roman was impressed he hadn't phased through, though he wasn't sticking around just below to see if it lasted. 

Roman scrambled to his feet, coming face-to-face with his soulmate. Although the elevation let Virgil tower over, he was still leaning far enough forward that their faces were mere inches away. 

"My bad," Roman apologized. "I didn't come to bother you more." 

"Then why are you here at all?" Virgil asked, raising a skeptical brow. 

"To… wait," Roman said. It was the truth, as lame as it sounded. Virgil's expression turned confused, yet he was still there in front of him, eyes not too far, definitely seeing him. 

In spite of the problems it'd brought about, Roman couldn’t help marveling the sight. Virgil could see him. 

"Wait for what?" Virgil asked, sounding doubtful. 

"You." 

Virgil scoffed. "And you said you weren't here to bother me." He leaned back, finally getting his weight off the unstable-looking rail. Then again, Roman had seen Virgil weigh practically nothing on it before. Perks of being a ghost, he guessed. 

"I'm not. I was going to wait until you were ready to talk!" 

"And what if I was never ready?" Virgil said, examining the banister a bit too intently. He was avoiding Roman's gaze. 

Roman frowned. "We'll need to talk about it eventually." 

"You sure weren't ready until I accidentally found out," Virgil cited, an edge to his voice. He wasn't yelling like when he'd fled up the stairs earlier, though, so Roman considered it improvement. 

Improvement as it was, however, Virgil did make a point. Roman sighed, keeping it as quiet as he could. "If you really want more time, I’ll give you all the time you need. I can leave now and be back tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week." He looked imploringly to Virgil, begging with his eyes for him to see. Miraculously, Virgil looked up. 

There was certainly something about seeing each other's eyes that was so different to Roman. When their eyes connect this way, he could practically watch the shapes of Virgil's thoughts, see into something far greater than his words and expressions, something deep down. They were looking into each other, and Roman could see just how tumultuous those dark eyes were, how scared and how much Virgil wanted to trust. 

Or maybe Roman was just a romantic. 

"If you tell me to climb out that window and not come back, I will. I will flounder out that window, banish my dignity, just to fulfill your wish faster. If you want me to never write again, I will throw away every pen I own. I will cover my arms and never let them feel the sun. I will go on and pretend as if I never found you, and that I have… given up," Roman held his breath for a moment, closing his eyes. "Given up on ever finding you, my Purple." 

"Whatever it is you want, Virgil."

When he heard a quiet sigh, Roman risked peeking open his eyes again. He watched as Virgil rounded the banister, popping off the steps to stand in front of him. They were eye level again. 

"If you threw away all your pens, how are you supposed to do your schoolwork?" he asked, latent humor in his voice. Roman didn't dare breathe. Virgil rolled his eyes. "Let's sit down." 

They situated themselves on the floor, back in the spot Roman has just occupied so that both their backs pressed against the wall. They sat side-by-side, both facing the opposite end of the room. Virgil had his arms dangling in front of him, propped on his knees. Roman sat with his legs crossed underneath him. 

“So,” Virgil started. He looked towards the ceiling, like Roman normally would have. Maybe it was weird to suddenly be seeing Roman. Maybe it was just the easiest way in that house to avoid eye contact. “Soulmates.”

Roman breathed out, resigned to the truth. He should have stuck to it a week ago. “Yep.”

“That’s why you’ve been leaving more marks?” Virgil asked. Roman nodded, and Virgil must have seen it from the corner of his eye because he continued. “That makes sense. So much makes sense now.”

“It wasn’t from guilt or anything. I do feel bad you had to see a lot of those marks from the past two years–I’ve been a mess. And, I mean, there was always a chance my soulmate would see them, but… I don’t know.” Roman leaned back, closed his eyes. 

_ Resigned to the truth _ , he reminded himself.

“My best hope was that you were still alive and happy somewhere out there. Maybe the universe had cut our bond or something, or you had decided not to reply anymore. But the odds to a thing like that... The universe doesn’t take back a soulmate. And you…” Roman bit at his lip, reminding himself again and again. “I knew you better than that. You would have given some sort of explanation. You would have never ignored me like that.”

“You knew I was dead?” Virgil asked, his voice coming out far softer than Roman had ever heard. He peeked open an eye. Virgil had looked back, was now watching him with wide eyes. Was it surprise? Horror? Pity?

Roman closed his eyes again. “Maybe. I think. I never wanted to acknowledge it. I don’t think I was ever in the state of mind to. But I think when something like that happens… you just know. Even if it wasn’t for the missing replies or the lack of explanation, I think I could feel it–that you weren’t here anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Roman was surprised to hear. Those were the exact words he had come to say himself. His eyes snapped open, watched as Virgil said, “You’ve told me how lonely it all makes you feel, and I was at the source of that.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Roman said, jarringly upset suddenly. Virgil’s mouth shut audibly, mutely watching as Roman sat up to look him dead in the eyes. “None of that was your fault. I’m telling you this so you know–I didn’t write any of that stuff thinking you would ever read it. I hoped and I prayed that you were still out there, but I knew, Virgil. I was screaming into a void.”

“You say that like it’s supposed to make this any better,” Virgil said, oddly insistent too. “Screaming into a void? You were alone, and I’m your soulmate. You should have never felt alone.”

“Really? And how the hell were you supposed to prevent that? I don’t see how you could have been  _ responsible  _ for your-” But then Roman cut himself off, a horrifying thought coming to mind. Because, yes, Virgil  _ could  _ have been responsible for that. “You-” he asked, unable to stop himself, unable to stand the feeling of not knowing. “You didn’t-”

Virgil seemed to get it immediately and shook his head vigorously. Relief flooded Roman, but he couldn’t seem to get his breaths even again with the thought still racing wild. It was horrible to think of, so, of course, his brain wouldn’t stop.

“My death was an accident, Roman,” Virgil said. “Doesn’t mean I still can’t be sorry I left you alone like that.”

Roman rubbed at his face with a hand, trying to rid himself of thoughts and fears. He felt tired, ages older. 

“You mentioned two years,” Virgil suddenly spoke up. “Is that really how long it’s been?”

“More like one and a half.” Roman dropped his hand and nodded. “Why? Does it not feel that way?”

“Not at all.” Virgil shook his head. “A part of me feels like I’ve been here forever, but the other part…”

Virgil didn’t continue, and Roman decided to let the sentence fade. It was time to do what he’d come there to do.

“Is it okay if I apologize now? Or do you still not want to hear it?”

“I get why you did it. You don’t need to,” Virgil said. 

“No, yes I do. It was ridiculous of me not to just tell you. I was afraid and I kept telling myself I would wait for a better time. I kept thinking maybe you weren’t ready to hear it, but I was the one who wasn’t. It was wrong of me to make that choice for you.”

“I’m the one who cut you off on the day you found out, though,” Virgil said. “I thought about it while you were gone. I told you I didn’t want to talk about soulmates anymore, and you did as I asked. I should  _ thank  _ you for that, Roman.”

“But you didn’t know what exactly you were asking there, Virge,” Roman laughed a little before growing somber again. “And I had plenty of opportunities to mention it this past week too.”

“So it has been a week?” Virgil asked.

“I should really keep you more up to date on the passage of time.”

Virgil snorted, covering his mouth with a hand. He hadn’t done that in a while. Maybe it was Roman’s visual presence now–a better reminder that someone was watching. Roman kind of wished Virgil wouldn’t hide, but he wouldn’t take back the fact they could see each other now. That hiding was something they’d just have to work on together.

“How about this?” Virgil said, pulling his hands down and placing them on the floor. “We don’t lie to each other anymore.”

Roman’s lips quirk up a bit. “Deal.”

“God,” Virgil said, leaning back, much more relaxed now. “This is not at all how I envisioned meeting you.”

“Really?” Roman asked, a smirk growing on his lips. “What’s throwing you off? The old decrepit house? The fact that you’re a ghost? Maybe that your soulmate is so dashingly handsome?” Roman said that last part with a classic eyebrow lift, pulling off a  _ great  _ Flynn Rider impression, in his humble opinion.

“I can see you now, so my scoff and eye roll are gonna count twice as much,” Virgil said, then, of course, proceeded to carry out the threat. “But I’m talking about how we planned it. Telling each other our names. Meeting when we were ready. If we’re talking about the ghost part, though, I didn’t think we’d  _ ever  _ meet.”

Roman looked over, smile sagging a bit. He leaned back, mirroring Virgil’s position. When he placed his hand down beside him, he was startled when it brushed Virgil’s. “Guess I’m not the only one of us that was a bit lonely.”

Virgil hummed. Roman moved his hand closer, just so that the sides of their fingers pressed together. He felt oddly immature not just going for it, but too shy to do it. 

“Hey, Roman?” Virgil asked. Roman stopped, hoping he hadn’t crossed some line.

It wasn’t as though he wanted something more with Virgil. They’d  _ just  _ found out about being soulmates. They’d only met maybe a month ago. And… maybe Roman liked being around Virgil, liked him maybe  _ a little bit _ like that- That didn’t mean he should go ahead and grab the guy’s hand. Especially after the newness of everything. Virgil must have been thrown for a loop when he could see Roman, and then see his soulmarks on top of that.

So Roman froze, hand moving no further. Their skin still touched, but it felt like ice.

“Do you still want to go out on Halloween?”

Roman looked up. He could admit that he probably went stupid when he said, “Huh?”

Virgil looked over, smiling a bit. Just like that, he’d hook their pinkies, neither of their hands leaving the floor.

Roman was shocked by how far Virgil’s gaze could blow him away. The connection felt like it batted him right across state and country, until he was simply looking back through some strangely high-definition telescope.

Virgil had a look in his eye. Roman swallowed.

“I think you heard me, Ro.”

Roman had. He nodded. “Yeah, I’d still like to go out on Halloween,” he responded.

Virgil gave him a mischievous grin in return.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remus is always a lot of fun to write, but I especially liked having the brothers talk seriously about things here. I didn't expect that scene to happen, but I'm glad it did.


	4. a goodbye and a hello

Virgil couldn't decide if this was the best or the worst decision he'd ever made. 

On the one hand, Virgil was exposing himself to the outside world–something he hadn't done in almost two years. He was stepping out of the house! Virgil didn't even know if he could  _ do that _ . It was a risk, and Virgil hated risks. Hated the unknown. It was like the dark. You didn't know what was out there, or when it would come to get you. 

Anything could happen. 

Yet. Yet on the other hand…

It was Halloween.

"I'm just impressed this stuff is staying!" Roman said, voice more openly cheery than usual. He was so excited for this, but that only made Virgil worry more. He couldn't mess this up for Roman. 

So Virgil stayed as still as could be while Roman applied the face paint. It had been Virgil's one and only request of the night–well, sort of. He'd told Roman he was worried about someone recognizing him. Roman had simply said to leave it to him.

"Are you trying to stay solid?" Roman asked. Virgil shook his head. 

"I'm not that good."

"Well, you're making the paint stay." 

"Ink never stays," Virgil remembered, then bit at his lip. He recoiled in disgust when he tasted paint. 

"A Halloween thing?" Roman wondered, passing his brush again through the white. "That's a good sign." 

Virgil didn't trust signs, good or bad. Besides, the ink he really wanted wouldn't stay. He'd tried it on Halloween before–when some guy and his girlfriend brought a Ouija board but ended up just fooling around in the living room. 

They'd mentioned something about Halloween, and Virgil could use a distraction from their noises, which he could hear even retreated to the furthest room upstairs. Soulmarks had always been his distraction before…

But it hadn't gone through. Even on Halloween. 

Red hadn't said anything himself that night either. It was a lonely night. 

"What did you do last Halloween?" Virgil asked, now curious. There had been plenty of days Red hadn't said anything, but this one stuck out to him. Roman would have already been in university, would have been not too far away, actually.

Roman shrugged. "Some house party." 

"Did you not have fun?" 

"It was alright. Shitty booze is just the thing to distract a college student, I hear." Roman smeared more paint onto Virgil's cheek and Virgil scrunched his nose at the feeling. Roman chuckled.

"I guess Halloween is the perfect distraction from midterms," Virgil said. 

Roman hummed. He was awfully quiet, but Virgil decided it was probably concentration. Even Roman could be serious at times. Those times just included makeup. 

Before long, Roman was pulling away, a satisfied grin on his face. "There. Done." 

"Can I know what you did now?" Virgil asked, but Roman gave a firm shake of his head. 

"That was only the first half."

"I thought you said you were done?" 

"On the makeup. Yeah," Roman said, cocking his hip like this was so obvious. Virgil frowned. 

"I didn't sign up for anything more than face covering." 

"It's just one more thing, Virgil!" Roman whined, but Virgil was shaking his head. 

"Wear whatever  _ you  _ want. I'm just a guy with his face painted in a hoodie." 

"Fine," Roman said. Virgil didn't believe him. His tone was not that of a man who had given up. "Guess I'll use this all myself." 

"I'm not falling for that, Princey," Virgil said, folding his arms. He tried to lean subtly to see what it was Roman was holding. Roman did nothing to hide it. 

He wanted Virgil to see. 

"Aerosol?" Virgil asked, incredulous. Why in the world would Roman think he'd want  _ that _ ? 

Roman spun around, brandishing the can plainly. "Spray on hair dye! It's purple." 

Virgil was tempted. But he also had pride. "No," he said with a shake of his head. 

"It glows in the dark." 

Virgil narrowed his eyes. 

Fuck. 

So that was the story of how Virgil ended up standing in front of a window on Halloween night, face painted in a skeletal grin and hair glowing a luminescent purple. He kept his hoodie. Roman, on the other hand, had gone for a more zombie-esque look. His face was a pasty green and he had fake blood matted in his hair. Virgil was surprised he was willing to look so unprincely. 

"Well, I must wear something to go along, I think." Roman threw a wink his way. "In solidarity to the dead walking the earth."

Virgil looked away. His eyes went back to the window. This was it. 

"What if I'm torn limb from limb? And my soul has nowhere it's tethered to anymore so it just drifts off. Or I disappear and because I'm not on the grounds where I died, I can never manifest again?" 

"Virgil," he heard Roman's voice in his ear, hand tucking into his. "I've got you." 

Virgil looked up, looked into Roman's eyes. 

There was no way Roman knew what was out there for Virgil either.

But Virgil trusted him. 

What a horrible thing blind faith is. Virgil was relying on Roman's instinct, his stupid positivity and bravery. 

Virgil was depending on his soulmate now. And maybe that was the best thing he'd done since he'd died. 

"I'm going through first," he said. Better to get it out of the way–to stop thinking how Roman wouldn't be there to catch him if he went first, that Virgil would fall away and Roman could do nothing but watch. 

Awkwardly, he shimmied through the opening. Virgil kind of hated it. Roman did this every day? 

His feet touch-downed onto the earth. 

He was safe. 

"Maybe I'm not far enough away from the house," he muttered, looking out into the slowly dimming sky. He probably could have left earlier–Halloween lasts all day, after all–but Roman had a class earlier, and Virgil wasn't doing this without him. Maybe they'd lost a lot of time, in case this  _ did _ work, but Virgil wouldn't have wanted to do it alone. Besides, Halloween was supposed to be enjoyed in the night anyway. 

"I think you're fine, Virge," Roman said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. He must have crawled through while Virgil was distracted. For a moment, they watched the backyard together. Nothing happened. There was no reason to watch it.

But they did. Virgil felt good. 

Roman showed him the way he usually took in, winding around the house and then down a long road into town. Virgil vaguely remembered the way, it having been one of the last places he'd been alive. It was different though. The grass was dead and the trees were half bare. Despite all the death around him, however, the autumn made the place quite beautiful. 

Dusk was settling over town, and the moon was rising. It didn't feel like stepping back in with the living, but it definitely wasn't the monotony of his broken-down house. There was something mystical in the air, like Virgil might hear a howl in the distance at any moment or an arm might sprout out of the ground. He wondered, if ghosts were real, what else might be out there? 

As they approached town, Virgil recognized it. He'd only ever been there once, but it was easy to see that nothing had changed. It was a small town, with just the needs for a campus next door, full of college kids. A local restaurant, liquor store, used-textbook store, tech-repair shop, and a handful of other tiny places like that. 

The one relevant to them, apparently, was a brightly lit cafe, complete with purple and orange fairy lights above the door and Jack o' lantern cutouts in the windows. It wasn't that busy–probably because most students had passed up studying that evening for booze and bobbing for apples at a local house party. 

When they walked in, a tiny bell alerted the staff to their entrance. The one table full of students, who were also costumed for the occasion, looked up momentarily before going back to their conversation. There were no papers or textbooks in front of them, so they were simply out to have a good time it seemed. Virgil could smell their coffees from there. 

Oh, coffee. Yet another thing he missed about living. 

"What do you want?" Roman asked as they approached the register. That alluring aroma still in his head, Virgil became very confused at the question. 

"Want for what?" 

Roman just smiled, amused and weirdly patient. At least he wasn't making fun of him. Yet. 

"We're at a cafe. What do you want to drink?" 

Virgil's eyebrows rose, now understanding, before they sunk again and he shook his head. "I can't drink. Or eat. Ro, you know this." 

"Yeah, but it's Halloween. Worth a try?" 

"You'll just be wasting your money  _ and _ sanity when it passes right through," Virgil said. Roman waited silently, and Virgil would have worried how Roman could be  _ quiet _ for so long if he wasn't used to the lengths the man would go to prove a point. 

So, with a sigh, he gave in. It wasn't hard, to be honest. If anything, he could hold a cup of coffee in his hands. That was comforting in itself. "Coffee. Two sugars." 

Roman scrunched his nose, but turned to the counter anyway. The barista had patiently pretended not to hear them talk, and Virgil couldn't imagine what she must have thought of the conversation. Maybe gastrointestinal issues? 

They picked a table in the corner, and the girl was kind enough, and the store empty enough, that she brought their drinks out for them. Roman's had a huge wallop of whipped cream on top, complete with purple and orange sprinkles. 

"This place has the best whipped cream," Roman hummed as he took a sip. Virgil, embarrassingly enough, had watched closely. The cup in his hands certainly smelled good, and he could feel vague warmth from the mug, trying to get through the indefinite cold of his body. He couldn't bring himself to look down at it yet. For a second, he wanted to pretend this was normal. Real. A normal cafe date under normal circumstances in which one of them certainly wasn't dead. 

Oh god,  _ date _ . What was Virgil thinking? 

Virgil broke his focus on Roman, feeling hot inside despite his inability to actually be any sort of warm temperature. Finally, he looked down at his mug. 

"Well, here goes nothing," he muttered, hoping the coffee would burn on the way down. 

Virgil took a sip. Nothing…  _ weird _ happened, so, cautiously, he drank more. 

And, god, he tasted it. 

And it burned on the way down. 

And it was too quick for it to be anything but placebo, but he swore he could feel the caffeine in his veins, waking him up from a two-year slumber, electrifying his brain into overdrive and his limbs into jumping ever so slightly. 

That horrid over-caffeinated feeling. Virgil loved it. 

He closed his eyes and hummed, letting it wash over him, feeling the numbness of death slowly ebbing away, the startling jolt of anxious life, the comfort of discomfort. 

"A coffee guy, huh?" Roman asked. Virgil's eyes popped open, remembering where he was. "I think I recall you once drank five cups in one day? Idiotic move." 

"It was seven cups. I lied to you because you thought I'd die from caffeine intake," Virgil remarked, taking another, far more casual sip of his coffee. He watched as Roman processed this old lie. 

"How many lies have you told me through our lives?" Roman sputtered, and Virgil, though drawn to noticing ironies such as these, chose to ignore it. 

"Probably the least out of anyone, to be honest," he said, shrugging. "I felt pretty comfortable telling you things." 

At this, Roman's expression completely changed, going from baffled and slightly indignant to a dumbstruck sort of flattered. "Oh," he said. "Really?" 

Virgil hummed in agreement. "You know, it's so weird hearing you say things about my past–like, even stuff I don't remember. That coffee thing was so long ago." 

"I guess I have a good memory," Roman said, looking bashful. 

"I'd say," Virgil said, already almost done with his drink. He was mourning it already. "It's got nothing to do with remembering things about your  _ soulmate _ ?" 

"Hey, you can't tease me when  _ you're _ the soulmate!" Roman argued. 

Virgil let his eyes go up, like he was searching for answers from the heavens. "And a poor bastard I must be." 

"So I remembered stuff about you? So what? It's not just because you're my soulmate, you know." Roman threw a hand, like gesturing to the obvious. Virgil lifted an eyebrow. 

"It's not?" 

"I remember stuff from back then because of  _ you _ , Linkin Puke. You can't say you don't remember stupid things I said over the years. We talked  _ way _ too much for none of it to stick." 

Virgil's mind was still ringing from the first statement of that all, but he managed to stutter out a, "Uh, yeah. I guess." Brilliant. Perfect. Idiot. 

"Want a refill?" Roman asked suddenly, effectively changing the subject, and Virgil had never been more thankful in his life.

He smirked Roman's way when the other stood. "You aren't going to try to limit my caffeine this time?" 

Roman shook his head, taking both their cups from the table. "I imagine you've earned it, today being the only night you can actually drink it. Besides, you're a skeleton tonight. Bone chattering is just a part of the role." 

And, with that, he walked to the counter, leaving Virgil alone to silently take in his surroundings. He didn't think he'd ever been so content in a public setting like this–or as happy to get out of the house. He guessed choice really did make all the difference. 

Virgil watched as the table of students across the cafe stood, gathering their things, probably off to their next Halloween-night stop. He wondered if they'd go to the house–or if anyone would. Virgil wouldn't be there this time to know. He and Roman would have to be careful going back though, in case they ran into any haunting tourists. 

Over the speakers, The Monster Mash began playing. Virgil chuckled to himself. Classic. 

On the bakery display, fake cobwebs stretched over the counter. Out the window, Virgil could see dead leaves skittering over the pavement in a strong wind. Dimly lit pumpkins littered the doorsteps of the few townhomes around, but it was late enough that most porch lights were out. Virgil followed two people walking up the road, talking animatedly to one another, one in a tutu and the other in a horrendous-looking mask. 

He was shaken from his observations by Roman's reflection in the glass, placing Virgil's coffee down and taking his place across the table again. Virgil turned back. 

"This place is usually a lot busier. It's actually really nice when calm like this," Roman said. He took a sip from his new drink, and Virgil noticed it was different. It smelled… he couldn't put his finger on it. Different. 

"What's that?" 

Roman looked down at the mug. "Apple cider. Just because you can subject yourself to a crapton of caffeine doesn't mean I have to." 

"Your last one was more sugar than anything anyway," Virgil said. 

Roman shrugged, face something in between  _ fair enough _ and  _ what are you gonna do about it? _

Virgil gulped at his coffee once again. Damn, that was good… 

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit after that, something they were long accustomed to. When Roman studied at the house, or Virgil stole books out of his bag to read (which Virgil refused to believe were deliberately brought for him), they wouldn't talk for hours. Or one of them would say something in the midst of it all and it would just hang there in the air, not neglected, but accepted and left alone. Roman would point out some interesting fact from his history textbook or Virgil would say whatever stupid thought came to his head, and that would be it. No obligation to the matter of the words.

So in their silence Virgil thought of them and this cafe and an old idea of a first meeting. 

"How different do you think things could have been?" he found himself asking, voice softer than usual. Somber, curious, at peace. 

"How do you mean?" Roman asked reproachfully. He knew full well what Virgil meant. 

Virgil indulged him anyway. "I was accepted to this school. I hadn't decided where I was going yet because I'm an indecisive mess, but I could have gone here. Do you think we'd have still met by accident? Or would we have arranged our meeting like we always thought we would?" 

"I don't know," Roman said. "I guess that's all up to fate." 

Virgil nodded, pressing his palms closer against the mug. Despite the coffee making him feel alive in some ways, it still didn't really affect his skin. Oh well. This was still far more than he would have ever dreamed. 

"Sometimes I think back," Roman said, and Virgil looked to him. "And I wish we had met back then. But we were going at our own pace. We made that decision, and it was the best one for us. Still, I can't help but wish we'd rushed things. It's obvious we didn't have the time," Roman chuckled lowly at that. Virgil shook his head. 

"I think we made the right decision," he said. "I mean, yeah, it's always good to make the best of the time we have, but the best isn't rushing things, I think. Neither of us were ready, and I still respect our decision to leave it at that." 

"Would have helped to know who you were when you stopped replying," Roman said, shoulders shrugging. 

Virgil's grin slipped. He looked down at his coffee. 

"Yeah, that would have been good." 

Silence reigned, but this time it wasn't comfortable. Apparently, Roman couldn't stand that. 

"But I still agree with you," he said. "Who knows what kind of disaster we'd have made by meeting early? I can barely tolerate your face now as it is." 

Virgil gasped exaggeratedly, relieved for the break in tension. "Funny. I can barely tolerate your personality!" he teased back. 

Roman clutched the front of his ripped and bloodied shirt, swaying around his chair a bit. "Hurts, Virgil. Hurts." 

Virgil smiled, like he always did when Roman called him by his name. The nicknames were cute and all, but it made it all the more special when Roman used his actual freaking name. He tried not to feel too giddy– he was embarrassing enough already. 

As they finished up their drinks they rose to go bring them to the counter. After they'd left, Roman proposed walking around a bit before they had to go back. While he wouldn't admit it, Virgil was relieved. He wasn't ready for the night to end yet.

They walked around the block, pointing out weird carvings on jack o' lanterns and getting too close to a house party before steering away. Roman said his brother and friend would probably be in there, but he certainly wasn't interested in explaining the ghost/soulmate situation just yet. Plus, Virgil sorta kinda hated it already by the looks of it. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much color even, with whatever those strobe lights were doing. 

The sky was cloudy that night, but Virgil loved seeing it unrestricted. It sounded stupid in his head, but he'd genuinely forgotten how vast it all was. Looking at it through a window limited the experience so much. When he could see in all directions, only buildings or trees blocking the horizon, the moon felt within his grasp, yet infinitely far away. 

He was lost in its glow when Roman spoke up. 

"It's almost time you became a pumpkin, Cinderella." 

Virgil looked over. "What?" 

"It's almost midnight," Roman said, tapping his watch. "We should get back." 

"Oh, yeah. Right," Virgil said, deflating. That made sense. Halloween would end at midnight. And, if Virgil was away from the house,  _ something _ bad would happen. According to Halloween legend and ghost lore and all that stuff. 

Maybe it wasn't true. But better safe than sorry. 

As they walked back, Virgil took in as much of the sky as he could. He thought of the sun again, the heat on his skin. Maybe the heat wouldn't work, but, next year, he should really try to come out earlier to see the sun. 

When they got back, they approached carefully, cautious of any Halloween intruders. As Virgil ducked through the window, his glowing hair got in his face and the depressing ordeal of shutting himself away lightened a bit. But he knew it wouldn't last for long. 

If ink usually didn't stay, it would all go as soon as the clock struck twelve. Like Cinderella. Unlike what Roman had said. Cinderella didn't become a pumpkin, what the fuck? 

Roman being a Disney fanatic, Virgil assumed it was just an expression. He wasn't in the mood to dispute it anyway. 

In the living room, Virgil turned to his soulmate. 

"Thanks for tonight." 

Momentarily surprised, Roman recovered with a shrug. "Of course, Virge. I'm just glad I could get you out of the house for once." 

Virgil rolled his eyes, but couldn't deny his bloodless cheeks would be blushing right then if they were alive. 

They were silent again. It wasn't uncomfortable… but I wasn't necessarily comfortable either. 

Awkward. It was awkward. 

"So, tomorrow?" Virgil spoke up, immediately cursing himself. What, did he want Roman to think he was kicking him out? 

"Yeah!" Roman said. "Yeah, tomorrow. I don't have class, so I'll be early." 

"Sweet." 

"Yeah." 

More silence. Virgil cursed himself for saying their silences were never bad. Doesn't he know a jinx when he makes one? 

"Okay, I'll see you then, I guess," Roman said, moving toward the window. Virgil wanted to facepalm into the next dimension. 

"Wait!" 

Roman stopped. 

Virgil cursed himself over and over and over… 

But Roman was looking at him now, open and caring. 

"I really had a great time, Roman," Virgil said. "Really." 

Roman's expression softened. "I'm glad. Me too." 

And, for once, Virgil gave a smile that was unguarded and unteasing. He nodded. Roman nodded back. 

Then he slipped out the window and Virgil was left alone. 

Feeling oddly unstable. 

He was going to ignore that for now. Tonight had been too nice for things to go wrong.

So he ignored them.

And drifted back upstairs.

And hung onto the memories.

-/-

Roman was suffering. As soon as Halloween ended, all his due dates zipped around the corner. Professors were pulling up project rubrics, introducing final papers; rehearsal was in full swing. If this was a story with traditional plotline, they'd be close to the climax, readying for the inevitable conclusion. 

But this was shitty college life, and Roman was just trying to hang on tight. 

He tried to bring stuff to Virgil's place–it was better than always calling it the 'haunted house' Roman had decided–but it didn't always work out in his favor. There was so much to do. Practices to meet for, group work to coordinate, and about twenty thousand textbooks Roman would have to bring with him if he went to the house now. 

Roman wrote to Virgil when he missed him, comforted by the thought of someone actually on the other end, but he still missed his soulmate a lot. No amount of marker on his arms could abate the chronic loneliness. 

So he had an idea. An idea he was very nervous about, but he knew he had to ask. It would continue to nudge at the back of his mind, keep him from doing work or focusing on any of his finals until he had at least asked. 

The next time he went to the house, he and Virgil sat under the window in the dining room. It was the best light in the house, and Roman needed it to see the tiny font of his textbook. Virgil had again "stolen" the book Roman had brought for him out of his backpack and was reading it sat against the wall next to him. 

Roman, like every moment since he'd first thought of his idea, couldn't focus. He watched Virgil from the corner of his eye, looking for… well, some sign? Some perfect time to ask? He wasn’t sure.

But Virgil seemed zoned out too, book loosely clutched in his hands while his eyes were fixed on the other end of the room. Roman was too distracted to notice he was paler than usual, eyes vacant and grey.

Roman was giddy as he pushed away his studying. 

"It sucks that all of my stupid work means we can't see each other as often," he complained. Virgil’s book slipped through his fingers, which flickered momentarily. Roman chuckled. He hadn’t seen Virgil slip like that in a while.

“W-what?” Virgil asked, eyes blinking back to the present.

Roman repeated himself. Virgil nodded.

"Y-yeah,” Virgil responded, and Roman wondered why he sounded so out of it. But Virgil quickly shook it off. “It's weird not hearing your voice in this place. I went a long time comfortable in the silence, and now look at me," Virgil chuckled. Roman smiled. 

"Aw, someone misses me." 

"You said it first!" Virgil argued, pursing his lips in that way that definitely meant he was blushing under all that deathly pallor. And nonexistent blood. 

"Yeah, well at least I'm not the only one who misses this," Roman said. That shut Virgil up, who was now looking at him inquisitively. "You know, I- I wanted to ask… you something." He tried casual. It was not casual. 

"Ask me what?" Virgil asked, and it sounded more guarded than it probably was. Roman shifted. 

"Well…" he said, looking at his backpack, thrown down by his feet. "I was kind of wondering- And, you know, you can always decline if you should choose-"

Roman sat up, pulling his bag close and digging through it. "Should I be concerned?" Virgil asked. Roman shook his head. 

"I know it might not be… something you want to do. And you don't have to. Seriously, if you're not comfortable with it, I totally get it. Just let me know-" 

"Ro, you're starting to seriously worry me," Virgil warned.

"Right. Right, sorry," Roman said, grabbing hold of exactly the thing he needed. He pulled it out and examined it at an angle where Virgil couldn't quite see. He took in a deep breath. 

"I was wondering… if you would…" he said, turning to the other. Virgil scanned his face, then immediately down to what he was holding. He seemed stunned. "Write something… on me," Roman finished lamely. 

He held out the purple marker to Virgil. 

Virgil stared at it, like Roman had presented him something strange and rare. A moon rock. A quarter from 1892. Roman's self confidence. 

Which was currently crumbling to dust. 

"I know it's a strange request-" Roman went to explain more before he was cut off by Virgil suddenly snatching the pen out of his hand, a determined look on his face. 

"Where?" 

"Uh," Roman replied eloquently. "What?" 

"Where do you want me to write?" 

Roman blinked once before he was shuffling closer, doubt dropping away, eyes alight. He shoved his sleeve up and gestured to the middle of his forearm. "Anywhere you'd like." 

He was being too eager. He didn't care. This was the most exciting moment in almost two years of his life–not counting anything with Virgil recently because, while exciting, those had all been near heart attacks. This was a happy kind of excitement, and Roman gripped it by the horns. 

And he trusted Virgil not to make fun of him. Not this time, at least. Because Virgil knew him–knew how vulnerable he was making himself, how much he doubted. 

All Virgil did was smirk, shaking his head good-naturedly. When he looked down at the arm, a thoughtful, worrisome expression crossed his face.

But, as Roman was trusting Virgil not to tease him, Roman could tell Virgil was trusting him not to bring this up. For once, they would let each other be. As much as Roman might want to leap in and be Virgil's knight in shining armor, there were things Virgil liked working out on his own. 

Virgil uncapped the marker and they both sucked in a breath. Virgil's hand was shaking. Roman scooted closer, trying to make the angle as easy for his soulmate as possible. 

"Write anything?" Virgil asked, still examining Roman's arm. It was his left arm–blank because left was his dominant hand. Though that hadn't always stopped Roman. 

"Anything," Roman confirmed. "Unless it's something rude or gross. I get enough of that from my brother." Roman laughed, and Virgil joined, relaxing a bit. His hand grew a bit steadier as he lowered it.

Roman tried to breathe. 

It wasn't that big of a deal. It was just a bit of marker. Their soulbond didn't even work for Virgil.

But this- this would still be a mark from his soulmate, and Roman hadn't had anything like that in so long. To see purple marker, Virgil's handwriting, on his skin again- Roman didn't know what to do with himself realizing it was soon to be reality again. 

Roman was so distracted by his thoughts that the touch of the felt tip came as a surprise. His eyes followed the dark streaks of ink that dragged across his skin. Virgil's hand carefully scribbled out some curvy bits, kinda lumpy looking, then completed the shape with a flat bottom. Underneath, he drew two big zig-zags that connected at a point making… 

"A stormcloud," Roman whispered, remembering their little insignias. Virgil lifted away the marker, and Roman heard the pop of it being capped. He couldn't take his eyes off the simple piece. 

It was so tiny against his arm, but Roman could swear he felt it everywhere, sinking into his skin–thankfully with skin-safe soulmate ink as most markers were made these days. 

He looked up at Virgil, but the other was already looking at him. So quietly happy, proud, almost soft, in a way. Strange, seeing Virgil anything less than his prickly self. 

Roman sent him a thankful smile. Virgil froze, his grin dropping at the corners. 

Roman's smile melted. "Wha-" 

But Virgil wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes had traveled down, brows scrunched in confusion, shock... fear? 

Faster than Roman could think, Virgil ripped up his hoodie sleeve, and they were faced with the exact same drawing of the stormcloud on Virgil's arm. 

"It transferred," Virgil said, his voice doing funny things with the words. He sounded like he was out of breath and trying to wrangle a hundred emotions at once. Roman could relate.

Because that… shouldn't be possible. Should it? 

"I thought it didn't work for you," he said. 

"It doesn't," Virgil said. "It's never before." 

Roman forced his eyes up to Virgil's face. His soulmate was still looking at the mark. Roman's eyes steered back to it, as if magnetized. 

"So, it worked on my arm? Why?" 

"Try it on me," Virgil said, shoving the marker into Roman's hand now. He presented the arm. It was hard to look away from the purple cloud long enough to draw his own. 

A little crown. Because why not match? 

The purple didn’t turn red. When they looked at his arm, nothing. 

"That's what I thought," Virgil said. Roman looked inquisitively. "I don't have skin. No actual body." 

"So it doesn't register that you've drawn anything?" Roman asked, pieces slotting into place. 

Virgil nodded. "At least, I think." 

“That’s wild,” Roman said, voice soft with wonder. Virgil didn’t say anything, so Roman looked away from his arm and the purple mark, up to examine his face. “Virgil?”

Virgil nodded, head coming up to return Roman’s look. “It is pretty wild,” he answered.

They shared a wobbly smile and looked at the marks again, unable to take their eyes away for more than two seconds. Virgil had written something, and it had stayed. If you looked close enough, it had changed to the exact shade of purple as always. It was real. It was there. Their soulbond was still alive between them.

Roman counted himself the luckiest man in the world to have it again–a genuine soulmark from his soulmate–a little bit of purple to go with all his red. 

And he pretended not to see the shine in Virgil’s eyes when they set about drawing more of it.

-/-

There was purple on Virgil's arms. For the first time in almost two years, his marks had gone through. 

Everything was sort of wonderful. He had Roman, who was his soulmate, who wrote to him every day, whether he made it to the house or not. Virgil's marks went through, even if it was only on Roman's side. 

He might have been a ghost now, but he wasn't alone. Virgil felt sort of… alive, in a strange way. 

Yet, ever since he'd drawn on Roman, Virgil couldn't stop thinking. About being a ghost. About being dead. 

Because Roman was very much alive. He was flesh and bone, blood circulating through a beating heart. He was physical, with skin that reacted to markers and a soulbond. 

Virgil… well, he didn't know how long he'd be stuck like this. He didn't know if his hopes would be answered, if Patton and Logan really could figure out this revival business. That wasn't to say that he doubted them, but… they themselves had told of the slim chances this plan would take. 

When Roman told Virgil he'd gotten one of the lead roles in his school's winter performance, he had known he'd never see it. When he talked about his brother and his moms and his friends, Virgil knew he'd never meet them. When he spoke of a future on the stage, in the movies, Virgil knew he'd never be there. 

The future had always scared Virgil while he was alive, but now he longed for it. The more he thought of it… 

The more he envisioned an apartment in New York, a little cat named Ariel, going home during the holidays to Roman's family and Virgil's parents. He wanted to hold Roman's hand across the table while they ate dinner or collapse into bed next to him after a long day at work. 

Oh gosh. Virgil was getting so far ahead of himself. So far. 

They were soulmates and soulmates didn't mean it had to be romantic, domestic, exclusive. 

But Virgil couldn't help it. He let himself get so so far ahead. He wanted that. 

He had to stop thinking of it.  _ He had to stop _ . 

Because this could be it. This could be all Virgil was ever to be again. Maybe fate had something like that in store for them, but fate wasn't the way of the world. The world was full of random happenstances and plenty of mistakes. 

Maybe his death wasn't supposed to happen as an eighteen-year-old new high school graduate, but that was what he got. 

And that could be what he got forever. 

Virgil couldn't let himself get so far ahead. This was a one way road to heartbreak. 

He couldn't turn Roman away. 

"Your memory slips are getting worse, aren't they?" a voice interrupted Virgil's thoughts, and Virgil must have jumped a mile. 

" _ Seriously _ , Logan. Warn a guy," he gasped. Spinning around, Virgil came face-to-face with the hauntingly familiar face of the grim reaper. 

"My apologies, Virgil. I will do better to warn you of my presence next time."

Virgil breathed, shaking his head. "It's fine, man." 

Logan nodded, folding his hands behind his back. One would think with all the movement that Logan was a fidgetter, but his motions were smooth and natural. He leveled Virgil with his gaze in calm precision. 

Virgil, shifting foot to foot under the gaze, was more the fidgetter there.

"Not to be redundant, but I asked if your memory slips were growing in frequency," Logan spoke up. Virgil closed his eyes and sighed. 

"I'm trying, Logan," he said, looking back up at the man- entity- reaper. "Really, I am. It's just hard sometimes." 

Logan just nodded, not looking agitated at all. "To be expected. You've done nothing wrong, Virgil." 

Virgil sighed, relieved, but it didn't last for long. Confusion quickly took over. Thinking back to the day after he'd told Roman about his panic attacks, when everything had gone numb. More days like that had followed, and Virgil had no idea what to make of them. It seemed to be getting worse and worse. 

"Then why is this happening?" he asked. "It's not only that they're more frequent now, but they last longer. If Roman's not there, then I'll lapse for a whole day sometimes." 

Logan adjusted his glasses, frowning. "But you are saying it's not as bad when Roman is around?" 

"I-" Virgil stumbled on his words, not expecting Logan to say that. "I guess? I mean, they usually happen when I'm alone. And if Roman shows up, I snap out of it pretty quick." 

"Interesting…" Logan said, and, with a wave of his hand, he had a notebook and pen. He scribbled something down, while Virgil stood there, alone and confused. 

"What does it all mean?" Virgil implored. "You said it's to be expected, so it's alright then? No worries? Haha, Virgil, way to overreact again?" 

Logan glanced up. He snapped the notebook shut, and it disappeared. 

He leveled Virgil with a look. 

"No, I'm afraid you're fading." 

" _ What _ ." 

"The signs are there," Logan continued, looking unaffected by Virgil's horror. "Memory lapses become harder to escape. Loss of emotion, hope for the future. Our biggest flag was when we saw Roman's eyebags, a reflection of a ghost losing its time. Quite ingenious of Patton to take his wallet so he'd have to come back." 

Virgil was gaping like a fish, mouth opening and closing at least ten times as he stared wide-eyed at the reaper. He decided to latch onto the scary part of that and not the baffling bit about Patton taking Roman's wallet. Or the thing about Roman's eyebags? What does that even mean? 

"A ghost losing its time?" Virgil asked faintly. He did not like the sound of that. 

Logan nodded. “However we do also believe the “cure” to your ailment is further within our grasp. With the right moves and, unfortunately, a bit of reliance on luck, we should be able to shift you back into reality without trouble,” Logan said, and Virgil’s heart reluctantly picked up. It was going at a sickly pace. 

"We’re that close? Why didn’t you guys tell me before?”

It had been years without any progress or digress in the “cure,” as they had taken to calling it for convenience’s sake. Usually, Logan and Patton kept things pretty vague, but it was obvious enough that nothing had happened. Or, Virgil had thought that was obvious enough. Had they been getting closer this whole time?

“We have not been close at all until recently. The process is actually a rather quick one once you have the ideal circumstances unfold. Like I said, a bit of it relies on luck.” Logan said “luck” with distaste. Virgil would have found that funny if he wasn’t so elated at this news.

But, of course, with any sort of good news, he was rather skeptical. “And what’s the catch? The luck we need is one in a billion, isn’t it?”

“Actually, luck seems to be in our favor at the moment–or our chances, should I say. Time is where our so-called “catch” lies. As I said, you're fading, and that is our problem.”

"You said this could take a whole  _ decade _ . Why am I fading now?" 

“It  _ could  _ have taken a decade, but that’s where chance is on our side, it would seem.” Logan adjusted his glasses, frowning. “You have to remember, Virgil, there are very little documented cases in the afterlife of bringing someone back. Our information on the matter is indistinct at best. To  _ reach  _ the circumstances of reconnecting with the living could take a decade, however we had no way of knowing that maintaining the ghost to that point is rather impossible.”

“Maintaining the ghost?” Virgil asked, Logan's words again coming off his tongue like slime. He knew Logan didn't mean to make him out to be a test subject or anything, it was just how he talked. Still, it made Virgil feel ill. 

"Yes," Logan agreed. With a silent sigh, Virgil watched as he deflated a bit, still trying to appear unbothered. "Everything fades, Virgil." 

"And that means me," Virgil said. 

He'd known it could happen. Virgil had known he could fade just as much as he had known he could die when he was alive. 

But no one ever truly thinks of it until it's upon them, do they? It's always just possibility; never reality. 

It was reality now. 

"Listen, Virgil, I'm not very good at comfort, so please bear with me." Virgil looked up to see Logan subtly shifting in place, looking quite uncomfortable. Yet… determined. "We're onto the cure. It is very close. And there is still hope." 

"But I'm fading," Virgil argued. "You said it yourself; it's up to chance now. But I've never been a lucky guy. I  _ died _ when Death itself thought it wasn't  _ my time _ . I'm going to forget, and I'm going to fade. And I'm going to leave Roman behind again, broken-hearted and alone." 

"Virgil-" Logan tried, but Virgil could already tell he didn't want to hear it. More false hope, empty promises. He shook his head. 

"No. I know what's going to happen now," Virgil said, and he spun on his heels, walking away. "It was only a matter of time."

He glided up the stairs, thoughts eerily clear, mind constructing a plan. 

"But I'm going to fight to leave my way this time." 

He didn't hear Logan go after him. He heard when Roman arrived over an hour later though. 

Virgil had never been more ready for anything in his life. 

He was leaving on his own terms. 

Roman collapsed near the window, already pulling out a notebook and some highlighters. When Virgil approached, he was pulling out his newest library pick, and he threw it for Virgil to catch.

It clattered to the floor through Virgil's flickering hands. When Roman's eyes darted up, startled, Virgil stuffed the hands in his pockets. 

"Slipped through," he said, finally feeling the nerves crawling up his throat. Roman laughed and placed a dainty hand to his forehead, mock-swooning like some damsel. 

"You sure gave me a fright, Sir Virgilius!" 

Virgil sat on the floor near Roman, but didn't respond. At the silence, Roman frowned. 

"Is everything alright?" 

Virgil pursed his lips, but despite every nerve in his body trying to break him apart, he opened his mouth to start. "I'm dead." 

Roman cocked a brow. "Um, yeah?" 

"And you're alive." 

"Double yeah," Roman said, brows now coming down into a worried arrow. "Seriously, Virge. What is this about?" 

Virgil sighed. He leaned forward, and they were just enough apart that Virgil's back hurt when he placed his forehead to Roman's shoulder. It was selfish of him to take this comfort, especially when he was about to hurt someone he loved. 

But a hurt like this would mend in time. Opposed to the hurt he'd put Roman through already, and the hurt he'd no doubt inflict if Roman saw him faded, it was preferable. 

Virgil didn't want Roman to see him that way–glassy eyed, emotionless, a pitiful ghost mourning something he couldn't even remember. 

"I don't think you should be hanging around here so often." 

"W-why?" Roman asked, sounding conflicted, unsure, fragile. 

Virgil thought of him and Roman laughing together, talking about absurd things, comforting each other, teasing one another. With Roman there, he'd never felt more alive, even in life.

"The dead and living don't mix," Virgil lied. "It's tiring being around the living when you're a ghost." 

For a horrible second, Roman was silent. But what was worse was the little "Oh" he gave in reply. 

Virgil clenched his eyes shut against Roman's shoulder. He wanted to stay there forever. This is where he felt safe. This is where he felt alive. This is where he felt  _ happy _ . 

But he couldn't put Roman through it all again. If Virgil was going to fade, he wasn't going to drag Roman back into that pit of despair he'd found him in. 

Roman had his brother, his mothers, his friends. He would get on fine. 

"I'm sorry, Roman," he said, voice just able to come out. "It  _ hurts _ ." 

That was the truth. It hurt to send Roman away. It hurt to know that he was hurting his soulmate right now. 

But he knew that wasn't how Roman would take it. 

"It hurts… to be around me?" 

Those words hurt more than anything else could have. More than nodding his head into Roman's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," Roman said, an unintelligible emotion thick in his voice. "I didn't know." 

"It's okay," Virgil nearly whispered. It was as if his voice lost more and more of itself with every word. 

He thought about his hands, translucent in his pockets. He thought of his voice, going further and further away from him. Virgil thought of the weight in his chest, like a blackhole, sucking in everything else that Virgil was. 

And, suddenly, he was terrified.

Virgil didn't want to fade. 

"Does it hurt now?" Roman asked. 

Everything hurt. Everything felt too much, yet not enough–like the world was engulfing him, yet there was never enough to engulf at all.

Virgil nodded, his forehead rubbing the soft material of Roman's shirt. Roman stiffened up. 

"I think I should go." Roman began to pull away. For a moment, Virgil felt his mind react in a blind panic, snapping to white as he tried to understand where Roman was going- where Virgil was- what was going on- 

He blinked back to reality. He was sitting alone on the floor; Roman stood up and collected his items. 

"You can come back," Virgil whispered. Traitor. He had to let Roman go. 

Roman paused and looked down at him. With a pained smile, he nodded. "I don't want to hurt you, but maybe I'll come back after a while. And I'll still write." 

Virgil found himself nodding, body on autopilot as his mind screamed. When Roman had gathered everything, he knelt before Virgil, taking his hand. 

"I'm sorry I didn't notice it earlier," he murmured, then leaned in to brush his lips to Virgil's cheek. 

When he rose again, Virgil could do nothing but watch. He looked at those green eyes, usually so alight, now somber. He looked at the tiny, almost not even there freckles dotting his nose. He looked at the strange eye bags, still so constant. 

He watched Roman's mouth twitch into a half smile, trying his best to give Virgil a pleasant farewell. Virgil's eyes grew hot. He'd always been kind of a crybaby, just not when anyone was around. Except Roman, it seemed. 

Then he watched Roman duck out, leaving the house through that one window, one escape, an escape Virgil had only ever taken once. He probably wouldn't make it to next Halloween to do it again. 

When Roman was gone, Virgil's tears didn't bubble over, his heart didn't spin off into turmoil. 

In fact, it all seemed to shut down. 

And the buzzing began. 

-/-

"Virgil?" a voice bounced off the walls. There must have been walls because that was definitely an echo, yet it was too dark for him to see. He couldn't remember where he was. 

For some reason, it didn't bother him all that much. 

"Virgil. Come on, kiddo; you need to snap out of it." 

Virgil blinked. That voice was familiar. With effort, he forced himself to remember why. 

It was like zoning back in after a particularly boring class, except without a clue of where you were and how long you'd been there. Virgil looked around, taking in the vague shapes of the dark room. No furniture. Dusty corners. 

A large pair of circular glasses reflected back at him. Virgil pushed away the fog until it resided only towards the back of his mind. At least Virgil could remember his immediate surroundings. 

"Patton?" he asked, throat scratchy. Virgil got the vague feeling that that shouldn't have been true. As he focused more, he was able to latch onto the confusing feeling. 

His voice grated on his throat, which was dry as sandpaper. It felt hot, overwhelming–too much feeling for someone who hadn't felt something like it in a while. 

"There you are, bud," a whispered voice greeted him from the figure ahead. Virgil gave his friend his best smile, but he knew it must have come out pained and groggy. The reflections spun as Patton moved. "You got a minute to talk?" Patton's soft voice asked. 

Virgil, not wanting to draw too much attention to his condition, nodded his head. He curled his fingers in, struggling not to jump when he felt them dip into the floorboards. 

"I heard what happened with Roman," Patton said. His voice was so soothing, yet Virgil still curled in on himself, eyes shifting from those eyeless glasses down to his knees. "Logan was afraid he would make things worse after your last talk, so he asked me to come. Do you want to talk about it, champ?" 

"Champ?" Virgil asked, voice still rumbling like gravel. "Why do you talk like that, Patton?" He pulled his legs closer, counting as each finger was able to grip his jeans again. "I'm not one of the helpless children whose souls you reap." 

The words were meant to hurt. Virgil could hardly muster any luster behind his voice to make it so. Instead, it sounded rather pathetic. 

Patton still sounded a bit wobbly when he responded, however. He tried his best to remain unaffected, though; Virgil will give him that. 

"I can stop calling you that," Patton offered. "Or anything else. I didn't know you don’t like it." 

Virgil deflated. He couldn't physically stay mad at Patton. It was impossible. 

"It's fine," he said. "It's just… I'm never going to get back to normal, am I?"

"Sure you will," Patton said. "Just takes a bit of time, is all. But that doesn't really explain to me why you turned Roman away." 

Virgil shook his head, frustration carrying the movement. "I can't keep going on this way–leading him on. He doesn't even know that I  _ could _ come back. Why would I give him that hope when I know it's never going to happen? Why should he have to hang around here just to be with his soulmate?" 

"I'm sure he doesn't mind," Patton offered. "Roman seems like he loves coming here to see you." 

"But that's the problem!" Virgil exclaimed, hands shaking, emotions peeling back like the wallpaper in the decrepit room. "Roman shouldn't have to give up his life to be here. He's got so much to live for, and he's wasting it all on the dead. I can't give him anything back, Patton! This is all I am–some dead guy stuck to a building. And I'm starting to lose whatever it is I  _ do _ have." 

Virgil shook his head, burying it in his hands. "I can't let him be around for that, Pat. I  _ can't _ . I won't make him watch me fade, watch me forget him and turn into nothing but that empty shell. I've hurt him so much already…" 

"But can you really ask him to leave? He makes you so happy," Patton said, torn. Virgil shook his head.

"It's not about  _ my _ happiness. I'm dead," Virgil reminded him. "And how can I be happy anyway, knowing this is just going to tear him apart?" 

"Don't worry about that. We're going to get you back-" 

"You don't know that, Patton," Virgil said, voice dangerously level. Patton went silent, mouth half open in the process. "It's like Logan said. Everything fades." 

"But- But Virgil-" Patton tried bringing up his hands to place on Virgil's shoulders. Virgil flinched away and horror sank into the reaper's eyes. 

"Just let it go," Virgil said. 

His fingers couldn't stay long enough to continue gripping his jeans. He felt himself dim a little, rage going quiet, horror dwindling. Virgil felt like a flame existed somewhere in his chest, warming his ghostly body in a last ditch effort, but it battered against a strong wind, trying to take over.

Nothing reminded him that he was dead like the cold. 

Virgil curled tighter to his knees, head resting against them to form as much of a ball as he could. "Could I be alone right now, Patton?" 

"I…" Patton said, uncertain and somber. "I don't know if that's a good idea." 

Virgil clutched his pant legs tighter, fingers disappearing and palms pressing in. He couldn't handle this right now. He was afraid that any minute he'd fall straight through the floorboards. 

"Please?" he asked, voice small, vulnerable. He hated it, yet Virgil didn't even lift his head to acknowledge his own patheticness.

Patton was silent. Then, "Okay. Call me soon, okay? When you feel well enough to have someone around?" 

Virgil felt like shaking his head, shaking his whole body until it shook all apart, piece by broken piece. He didn't. Instead, in the same small voice, he simply said, "Okay." 

There was a sigh. Nothing happened for a good minute before there was shuffling. When Virgil looked up, Patton was gone. 

He looked down at his hands, or what was left of them. 

Virgil would run off everyone one day. His soulmate. His only two friends. If he could still see and talk to his parents, he would have no doubt messed things up with them too. 

There was no way things could work out like this. He curled his hands into fists, watched as almost the entire thing was engulfed in pure nothingness. Virgil thought of his little flame, dancing in the dark cavity of his chest. It illuminated his thinly beating heart; it warmed up the blood that traveled to the coldest reaches of his body. 

The tips of his fingers, though invisible, were still freezing. A bit more time like that and he'd get the warmth he asked for. Unless hypothermia didn't work on ghosts. 

Trying his best not to think about it, Virgil attempted to climb to his feet, only to be tripped by his own shoes.

Or, no… not shoes. 

Knelt on the floor, only barely having caught himself in a precarious balance, Virgil witnessed the fade crawl up his feet. 

"No…" he whispered, eyes widening. "Not now." 

He crawled himself to the wall and pushed up it, leaning all his weight on it as he slid the long way around and out of the room. By the time he'd reached the door, he was psychosomatically sweating and had to sweep his bangs out of the way, sagging with his wrist on the doorknob. 

It only took a second for that to phase through too. 

Virgil looked on in horror as it crept further up his arms. This was his cue to scream, probably. To let his age-old friend anxiety try to save him. But he couldn't feel it. Why couldn't he feel it? 

He was watching himself turn to nothing, and he wasn't even scared. 

That was a first. Virgil was  _ always _ scared. 

But that flame in his chest was hanging on by a wick, and Virgil couldn't feel that normal roar of emotion. He knew why, of course. He knew it was just a part of fading. 

Despite preparing for this inevitable doom, however, Virgil hadn't expected it to happen so soon. 

"It's fine," he mumbled to himself, pushing off the wall and into the hall. "I'll just go into another of those freaky trances. I'll snap out. I have to snap out." 

Virgil stumbled and leaned on the opposite wall. The gusts in his chest were torrential, blowing the flame to and fro. It would be a sight to see, that little fire hanging on, but Virgil had other things to watch. 

Like the floor approaching rapidly. 

Virgil tried to brace himself as he fell, but his hands phased through and his arms clanged painfully to the wooden floors. He moaned in his heap, lying pathetically there and unable to get up. He couldn't even muster the strength to lift his head. 

With a seemingly last-ditch effort, the little flame laughed at him, roaring into the emotion of the dead and dying. 

Fear. Virgil felt terrified. 

Because this couldn't be it. He'd thought he'd see Roman at least once more, have the opportunity to say goodbye. He'd thought he could see Logan, Patton. 

Instead, he had left all of them in pain, anger, fear. The last time he would have seen all three of them, and Virgil had managed to make it the worst goodbyes ever. 

He'd never see them again. Any of them. He'd never see his mom or his dad. He'd never go home. After all that freaking hope, and it'd all been for nothing. 

Virgil hadn't been strong enough to make it that far. 

His life wasn't supposed to end then, but hell if Virgil wasn't the one paying the price. Yet he didn't blame Logan and Patton. 

Stupid Virgil. He kind of loved those reapers. He'd never actually gotten confirmation on if they came by out of guilt, but Virgil didn't doubt it anymore. They were friends. The reapers who had taken him from his life were his best friends. How about that? 

And Roman… oh, Roman. Virgil would be leaving him to nothing again. 

He'd be leaving him with soulmarks that go nowhere. With nothing but a dead soulmate. 

But, maybe- maybe he'd be okay this time. Roman had talked to his brother, and Remus would be there for him. And Roman wouldn't live in uncertainty anymore. Virgil would be gone, and Roman would know that. Maybe with that he could one day move on. 

Virgil would love that. All he wanted was for Roman to be happy, in the end. 

To maybe find someone–someone who made him smile and laugh, who would comfort him, keep him safe, who would hold him and stand by him and just stay with him. To be that constant in Roman's life.

Shaking, Virgil lifted his head like the weight of a dumbbell. Thankfully, his sleeve had ridden up in his struggle, so, with limited effort, he was able to look at the marks there. 

Some red, some purple. Some doodles, some words. Roman's beautiful calligraphy, Virgil's choppy scrawl. A storm cloud. A crown. 

Something came out of his mouth, and Virgil wasn't sure if it was a laugh or a cough. Some far-off emotion lingered outside the fear, and he thought it might have been happiness. Those marks always made him so happy. 

_ I want to say goodbye. _

The thought came at random. The urge came on strong. 

Despite knowing it was a helpless effort, Virgil wanted to do it. 

"For closure," he mumbled, nodding to himself. 

His arms shook under him, and he put all his energy into his hands, feeding back into the image of something physical, something strong enough. 

_ Just strong enough for this. Then I can rest. _

He pushed himself up, arms holding him like a bundle of dry noodles, ready to snap. When he sagged into the wall, now sat up, he sighed in relief, only to redouble his efforts. 

His hands had to stay. He couldn't do this without them. 

Fingers jumping, Virgil reached into his pocket and grabbed a marker that had never done him any good. He opened it, dropping the cap at random. 

His body flickered in and out and the marker clattered to the floor. Virgil swore. 

"Come on," he ground out through clenched teeth. He picked the marker up again, lifting his arm at the ready. 

It wouldn't go through. That wasn't what this was about. 

He wanted to say goodbye so badly, but this wouldn't do any good getting it across to Roman. 

But maybe, towards the end, he was really looking for his own solace. 

Marker to skin, one last time. 

An unheard goodbye, one last time. 

The graffiti pen wasn't safe for skin, but Virgil didn't have to worry about that. He scribbled the ink in deep, dark, until it felt like a part of his skin. The black smeared. 

The marker slipped from his hand again. 

The flame shivered in the wind, leaving him cold. 

-/-

Roman was rushing to pull his stuff together for class, having taken a nap that ran fifteen minutes later than planned. He was slamming shut notebooks and textbooks, shoveling pens and highlighters into his bag. He shivered at the disorganization, and the inevitable sweat he would build up by running across campus, but he hated the thought of arriving late more. 

Roman Prince was no tardie. 

He slung the strap around his shoulder, scooping up his phone, wallet, keys and bolted out, rushing down the stairs and out into the fountain square outside his dorms. He didn't stop to watch the water suds expanding and flowing out onto the cobblestone. It was an old prank–simply put bubble bath in the waters and wala–so, while Roman would usually stop to admire the handiwork of some fraternity, there was no condolences ignoring it for today. 

Roman sprinted across campus, clutching at his side when a stitch formed not two minutes after taking off. Okay, so he was slacking off on exercising lately. Sue him. It was the end of semester and he was also spending a lot of time with Virgil!

Or… he had been.

Roman slowed down a bit, breathing hard and mind assaulting him. Fuck. His nap was supposed to make him forget about all this crap. 

But of course he couldn’t forget. Virgil had asked him to leave. He’d been hurting Virgil without even knowing it. 

Roman gulped in the cold air, reaching the door of the 300 building. 

He stopped when he felt the arm catch on something, burning at the sting. However, when he looked down, there was nothing it could have caught on.

“What the heck?” he breathed, still a bit winded, lungs spasming with each cold puff.

Then, it stung again.

“Agh!” he yelled, snapping the arm closer to his body. Was there something stuck in his sleeve?

He pulled it back, shaking it to get whatever thumbtack or tiny pinecone out. Nothing fell to the concrete, and Roman was only more confused. 

Until his eyes caught on one of his purple marks.

“When did Virgil make that one?” he asked himself, knowing he was alone out there. He brought his arm closer, squinted at the mark.

A half of a heart, there on his wrist. Roman’s own heart lodged, staring down at the reminiscent symbol. 

It was right where Virgil’s little heart had gone on Roman’s graduation day. 

Then, Roman yelled.

The other half of the heart was drawn in right before his eyes.

“Holy fuck!” he whispered, heart picking up. What was going on? Virgil couldn’t write on his skin. That half of the soulbond didn’t work. So-

“It works,” Roman breathed, a mystified laugh coming out. “Oh my god, it works!”

Without a single thought to the class he was skipping, Roman turned on his heel and ran back the way he came.

Virgil’s side of the soulbond was working again. Somehow, someway- Maybe just like how they could see each other? It had taken time, patience, but, in the end, it was bound to work again.

Roman ran and ran, breaths coming in painful gasps, but he didn’t stop. He sprinted past the dorms, wound through town, almost ran into a few people and cars, but he was fine. He just had to get to Virgil.

When he got to the house, he started to doubt himself.

_ Should I have… written to him first? _

When Roman was there, he hurt Virgil. Maybe he should turn back. 

His feet didn’t want to listen. His steps were slow, but he was soon in front of the window. From there, he saw a figure in the living room.

“Virgil?” he called. This was bad. What if he ended up hurting him? It’d only been a few days since he was there last, a few days for Virgil to recover from whatever weird ghost thing that happened when he was around the living. 

The figure turned and Roman yelled. 

That wasn’t Virgil. 

“You are Roman, are you not?” the man asked, adjusting his glasses. “Please come in. Quickly.”

Roman stood still. He couldn’t be sure this wasn’t a murderer. Was Roman about to be the next ghost in this house? 

But the guy didn’t actually look… human. His skin was conversely pale and grey, giving him a skeletal look. His eyes almost seemed to glow behind his glasses. He wore a black hood, definitely only in style if you were going as a grim reaper or something for Halloween-

Wait. Grim reaper?

“My name is Logan, and you need to help Virgil. Come in. Now,” the guy commanded. Logan. Roman knew that name.

But that wasn’t the problem now. 

“Help Virgil?” he asked, scrambling through the window. He had to be an expert at it by now. “What’s wrong?”

He clenched his arm, thumb tracing the purple heart. He’d done the same over and over again the brief week it’d lasted after his graduation, turning it into a nervous tick. It was a habit he fell easily back into a year and a half later, even if the original habit had lasted only a week.

“He’s fading, and, as his soulmate, you are the only one able to prevent it. Go upstairs to him,” Logan said. Roman turned to them, already making his way there. Logan followed.

Roman raced up the steps, far too creaky under his feet, until midway up his foot broke through the old wood. He sank down, trying to catch himself on the railing.

Arms caught him, frigid as the arctic. Roman looked up into the frightening eyes of the reaper.

“Watch your step,” he said grimly. Roman simply nodded, hoisting himself back up and continued on.

When he made it to the top, he gasped.

Sitting next to something on the floor was another reaper. Patton? It had to be Patton, the other one Virgil had told him about. Patton looked up at them.

“Good!” he gasped. “I thought I felt him approaching the house. Come here, Roman! We don’t have much time.”

Roman rushed over, on his way looking to the figure huddled on the floor maybe-Patton was sitting with. 

His heart froze. Flickering on the ground was a pale ghost in a dark hoodie.One sleeve was pushed up, showing the mark Roman had just gotten. Not too far off was a bulky black marker.

Roman fell to his knees next to him. “What’s happening?” he whispered, hands hovering over the still form. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Virgil was dead.

There couldn’t be anything worse than death, could there?

“He’s fading,” Logan said again, standing behind him. 

“We don’t have time for an explanation,” Patton rushed, breathing out the words as he placed a palm to Virgil’s cheek. He only flickered more at the touch and Patton flinched away. He turned to Roman. “Please, you have to help him.”

“How?” Roman asked, a mix of fear and determination in his voice. He would do anything.

Patton opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Looking unsure, he shut it again, looking to the other reaper. “Logan?”

“There is no one thing he can do,” Logan said. “The bond isn’t strong enough. And Virgil is unconscious.”

“Is it bad for ghosts to be unconscious?” Roman asked, still unsure what to do here. He hovered awkwardly, worriedly. 

“Virgil’s condition is a bit different, I would say, but altogether, yes. Sleep aids the fading process.”

“What the heck is fading?” Roman asked, desperate for any answers. He knew Patton said they didn’t have time, but if there wasn’t anything else he could do he might as well look for something that might help. “Is it like going onto the other side?”

Roman was almost afraid to hear the answer.

Because… that should be a good thing, right? Virgil could go onto somewhere better. He wouldn’t be stuck to this world anymore as a ghost. He wouldn’t be lonely. He wouldn’t have regrets. Roman should want this for him.

Yet, Roman didn’t think he could let him go.

When Logan shook his head, Roman’s relief felt sick. The worry only came back tenfold.

“Fading is the process in which ghosts forget that they were once living. They lose all sense of self, place, and time. Virgil will forget everything he’s ever known and remain a shell of himself for eternity,” Logan explained. Roman felt something akin to panic surge up his throat. 

“How do we stop it?!” he almost yelled, turning back to his soulmate. Taking a risk, he reached out and touched him. The flickering seemed to ease somewhat--different to the reaction with Patton. Taking this as a good sign, Roman gathered the other and pulled him into his lap. 

Still, Virgil was so transparent. Roman couldn’t see anything of his hands. The tips of his hair, his ears, the sides of his cheeks, they all were fading. 

“There’s nothing we can do now. Virgil was supposed to be awake when you got here,” Logan said. 

“What does that have to do with-”

“Wait,” someone interrupted him in a soft voice. Roman couldn’t look up, couldn’t look away from Virgil. He felt like his soulmate could be gone in a single blink at the rate he was flickering. He clutched him tight, but it didn’t seem to do any better.

“What’s that?” the same voice continued. It was Patton. Roman had no idea what he was talking about. “Logan! His arm!” Patton exclaimed.

“Oh my Death. When did that appear?” Logan gasped. Roman still refused to look up, but he did look down. Virgil’s arms looked the same as when he’d arrived. The poor little heart stared back at him.

It was a goodbye before. And now it was goodbye again.

Suddenly, Roman felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Roman, let go of Virgil,” Patton said. Roman, shaking, only grabbed on tighter. “Roman, sweetie, please.”

But Roman wouldn’t let go. He’d never give up on Virgil. He hadn’t after the long years of silence on his arms, and he wouldn’t now.

Virgil had said it himself. Roman was never one to give up easily. 

“We have to take him,” Logan said, voice low enough that Roman knew it was only meant for Patton. “Now.”

Roman shook his head, clutching Virgil tight. He couldn’t let go. The contact was the only thing that seemed to be helping Virgil. 

“Roman,” Patton said again, voice sad. It sounded pitying, like every person who had treated him like glass over the years. Every person who saw him just as that guy who lost his soulmate. Like whispers at a funeral, condolences for their loss. 

Roman hadn’t lost Virgil yet, though. Why couldn’t Logana nd Patton see that? He wouldn’t let them take Virgil. They may be reapers, but they couldn't know everything. Roman knew Virgil wasn’t gone, and he would not give up yet. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, kiddo,” Patton breathed, voice close. Roman saw a grey hand enter his field of vision and Roman flinched back, thinking the reaper was going to do something to him. 

Instead, the hand touched Virgil’s forehead lightly. Virgil began to glow.

“What?” Roman whispered, his eyes growing wider. “No!”

In a flash, his soulmate was out of his hands, nowhere to be seen. It was as if he’d disappeared in thin air--not like the flickering from before, but more sudden. He was gone.

And, when Roman looked around, Logan and Patton were too.

They had… taken him. To where? To some other place? Where ghosts who’ve faded go? Why couldn’t Roman know more about the freaking afterlife just to know where they’d taken him?!

“No!” Roman exclaimed again, bending down, fist slamming into the floor. He was still shaking, though perhaps more violently now. Tears streamed down his face, and he had no idea when it’d started. “Virgil!” he shouted, like maybe he could summon him back.

Virgil was gone.

Virgil was gone, his mind kept repeating.

Virgil was gone, his mind kept screeching.

Virgil was gone.

After he’d just gotten him back. 

Roman sat up, sobbing. He looked around, hoping he had missed something.

Down by his feet remained the marker. Roman picked it up.

It was a large round pen for graffiti. It was black and stained with other smeared colors from whoever had owned it before. Roman assumed Virgil had found it in the house. Some of the colors around it matched the walls downstairs. 

Clutching it close to his chest, his tears slowed. His heart beat slowly, too slowly, like it couldn’t quite believe the anguish that had taken over his heart. 

Roman breathed in. With tear-stained eyes, he looked around. In a quiet voice, he spoke to the empty house around him.

“Virgil?”

There was no reply.

-/-

Roman had no idea how long he sat there, sobbing to the silent walls and clutching that marker close to his chest. Eventually, he ran out of tears, though, and had to settle for slumping, one shoulder to the wall. He couldn’t take his eyes off a cobweb in the corner. 

Then, he heard a noise from downstairs.

It was faint, just the sound of something shifting. Maybe it was the house settling. That’s what people always told themselves in scary movies to excuse the sounds of ghosts.

But there weren’t any more ghosts in this house, so why should Roman care?

Then, there was the sound of footsteps. Roman’s breath went in, held tight against his ribcage as he listened. Then-

“ROMAN?”

Roman bolted upright, head snapping to the staircase as he registered the voice. Someone was in the house, and they knew his name.

But he wasn’t afraid. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

He rose, taking a few shaky steps towards the stairs. Roman certainly wasn’t in the same rush to get down them as he’d been to get up. Numbly, he took it step by step, avoiding the hole he made as the only thought to guide his way.

Was this the way Virgil was feeling right now? Losing all sense of self, was what Logan said. Could he feel anything right now?

“Roman,” Janus gasped, running up to the stairs, relief in his voice. “Remus, I found him!”

A blur of green zipped out of the kitchen and Remus met Roman halfway, breaking another step on the way up. Since it was further down, it didn’t cause him to slip too far, though, and he didn’t need any help getting out of it. He disregarded it like it was nothing, bolting the rest of the way to his brother.

“Mickie said you didn’t come back to the dorm!” Remus said, eyes darting between Roman’s own. There was definitely worry there, and not the usually nonchalant kind. Remus was buzzing with manic energy, taking Roman in from head to toe. 

“Get off of the steps,” Janus demanded from below. He was holding the banister, looking up in worry. Remus disregarded him for once, but Roman nodded.

“The stairs aren’t safe,” he said. He walked down with his brother, stepping over the newly made hole. Well, if anyone were to ever come in the house again, they wouldn’t need Virgil to warn them against the stairs.

The thought brought on new tears to Roman’s eyes. He thought he’d run out. 

“Why are you two here?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

Janus and Remus both looked worried at the sudden watering of his eyes, but they didn’t say anything on the matter.

“It’s four in the morning, Roman,” Janus said instead. Roman frowned. Had it really been that long? The class he skipped had been at eight. 

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

Remus stepped forward. “What’s wrong, Ro?” he said, blunt and to the point. That was his brother. 

And Roman- well, Roman didn’t have anything to offer but the truth. “He- he’s gone,” he confessed in a scratchy warbling voice. They both looked confused. “V-Virgil,” Roman elaborated. 

“That ghost?” Remus asked. He looked around, like that would solve the mystery. “Where’d he go?”

Roman opened his mouth, but his lips wobbled, releasing another sob. Truth be told, he didn’t know where Virgil had gone. He was in the dark again, unsure what had happened to his soulmate.

And he’d be stuck like that. Again. Forever.

“Okay,  _ not  _ what we’re going to ask right now,” Janus said, stepping forward. “In times like this, I think there is only one thing that helps.”

Roman hummed, unable to do anything else in the state he was in. He tried futile to wipe away the tears, but it all kept pouring down. 

“Would you like a hug, Roman?” Janus asked.

That- That sounded perfect.

Roman nodded.

And he fell into the arms of them both, sobbing ever more.

Once again he lost track of time, but this time, when he opened his eyes, he noticed the sun was peeking through the boards on the windows. At some point, they’d sat on the floor and leaned against the nearby wall, laying in some sort of awkward pile. Roman felt raw, emptier, yet strangely more at peace. Every time he thought of Virgil, however, his heart tore once more.

When he looked around, he noticed that both Remus and Janus had fallen asleep. Damn, they must have been there for a while.

They’d stayed with him.

Roman felt more grateful than every Thanksgiving day combined. 

When he looked away, he noticed that the light he’d thought was coming through the windows was not, in fact. Outside, it was still pretty dark. 

“Huh,” he said, voice quiet. Where was it coming from then?

A quick look around made it easy enough to tell, and Roman rose, climbing out of the pile they’d created on the floor. Remus woke up, blinking groggily up at his brother. “Ro?”

“There’s something glowing over there,” Roman said, pointing to the dining room. Maybe the one open window just got more light. However, this didn’t look like any sort of normal light. 

“I suppose we should look then,” Janus said, and both Remus and Roman jumped. Janus didn’t look, or sound, like he’d been asleep at all. 

Instead of commenting on that, Roman just nodded his head. 

Maybe Logan or Patton had come back. Maybe they would have answers. 

Roman walked carefully over to the dining room entrance, slowly peeking in. And, sure enough, there Patton and Logan stood, looking away and talking closely with one another, shoulder to shoulder. Roman cleared his throat to get their attention.

When they broke apart to turn around, Roman’s heart stopped, noticing another standing behind them. He was looking down at his hands, glowing in that golden hue that the room was emitting. When Logan and Patton moved, he looked up and their eyes met.

“Virgil?” Roman whispered. He didn’t think he could take it if this was some illusion. Roman’s heart couldn’t stand anymore break. If this wasn’t Virgil…

If Virgil had come here to say  _ goodbye… _

Remus joined Roman on one side, Janus on the other. Roman rested assured that at least if he fainted he’d have them to catch him. 

Then, Virgil smiled, looking like he couldn’t quite believe any of this himself. He stepped forward, and Logan and Patton parted ways for him. “Roman.”

“Are- Are you really-” he asked, unsure what he was even trying to say.

“It worked, Ro,” Virgil said.

Roman furrowed his brow. “What worked?”

“It was simply a matter of reviving the soulbond,” Logan said from behind Virgil. “The strongest connection Virgil’s soul had to the living was through you. As soon as the bond truly reconnected, we were able to transfer him back to his body.”

“What?” Roman asked, unsure of what he was hearing, afraid to get his hopes up. He looked back to Virgil.

Virgil gave a hopeful smile. “I’m alive again, Roman.”

“You’re- You’re-” Roman stuttered, trying to get it right in his head. This was more than he’d thought- than he’d ever hoped. Was Roman still asleep by the stairs with Remus and Janus? A moment ago, Roman had thought Virgil was gone forever, something even worse than death. Now, he was  _ alive _ ?

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Well,” Virgil said, reaching into his hoodie pocket. “Only one way to find out.”

He dug around for a minute before a confused look crossed his face.

“My pen’s gone.”

Roman blinked, then looked down at his own hand, still clenching tight. He brought it up, showed Virgil. “This?”

“Oh,” Virgil said, eyes widening. He reached out for it, hand staying a minute longer in Roman’s as he looked up at him. “Thanks.”

When he took the pen, he rolled up his sleeve. A look crossed his face before he let the pen touch his skin. He looked up at Roman, considering. 

Then, seemingly decided, he looked back down at his canvas. Quickly, he scribbled whatever it was in. 

And Roman felt it. Not the stinging, sharp feeling from earlier, but something subtler, something more akin to what he’d felt when Purple wrote to him. A slight tickle, a soothing caress. 

He looked down at his own arm. There below the heart was a message. 

_ I love you. _

Roman’s heart sparked. He looked up, eyes practically glowing. “Can I have the pen?”

“Of course,” Virgil said, passing it over with a smile. Roman wrote in big, loopy lettering. 

_ I love you too. _

“Good to know,” Virgil said. They both looked at each other again. Roman took a step closer. 

“Hey, Virgil,” he said.

Virgil hummed. “Yes, Roman?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Virgil’s grin widened. He leaned in closer. “Sure you can.”

And, so, he did.

With a hand to Virgil’s chin, Roman let their lips brush together, a powerful and meaningful move. Roman never wanted to let go, and maybe now he wouldn’t have to.

Virgil was alive, and safe, and there. And after actually freaking dying on him, Roman may never let him go again.

When they parted, they looked into each other’s eyes, unable to suppress their smiles even a little bit. Virgil took both fo Roman’s hands into his, and they clung on tight to each other. 

Then, they were made aware again that they were not alone.

“Wait,” Remus said, jolting them both back into the present. Roman looked back at his brother.

“This guy’s your soulmate?!”

-/-

After a long summer, full of record-high temperatures, Virgil still wasn’t sick of the heat. He might have still been wearing a hoodie, but he had pushed up the sleeves to feel the sun on his skin, he’d pushed back his hair to feel it on his face. Roman said he liked seeing him like this, soulmarks out, eyes seen, and, most of all, the happiest he’d ever seen.

Virgil wondered why Roman wasn’t ever paying attention when Virgil was looking at  _ him _ .

But he had one thing right. Virgil really was happy when he was out in the sun. And he still liked rainy days, like his first go around life, but no longer did he enjoy the cold. He’d had enough cold for a lifetime. Thank goodness they lived in Florida. 

It was August now, which meant they were a month away from the first time he and Roman had met. As of now, Virgil hadn’t been back to the ‘haunted house’ since late November, the day he’d been revived. After that, Roman had tried to sneak him into his dorm, and when his roommate Mickie immediately became confused, Remus and Janus took him to their dorm.

And, a few weeks after that, he’d gone home. 

It had been a heartfelt reunion with his parents. And since he couldn’t quite tell them he’d died and come back to life, and he didn’t want to have a too dramatic or elaborate cover story, he’d told them he’d run away. They’d immediately forgiven him, letting him come home, but it took a lot of talk to abate their worry and guilt. 

Virgil was still dealing with that. All the guilt. But it was far better being alive to do so.

Now, though, was the first day of classes at WSU for the fall semester. Another day Virgil thought he’d never have. 

He’d decided not to enroll for spring classes last year because everything was still so new to him. There was still so much to be done, to get used to being alive again. By the time summer classes rolled around, Virgil had figured he should just start anew with the rest of the freshmen, start in the fall. 

So, to say Virgil was antsy to begin was putting it lightly. 

But his first class didn’t start for another two hours. He was here early, of course, for his soulmate.

When Virgil walked into the cafe the bell on the door went off. It looked different in the daylight, without Halloween decor and with way more students. But the man in one of the far off tables was familiar, and he looked up at the sound of the bell. When he spotted Virgil, he smiled and stood.

Virgil started to walk over and grew confused when he watched Roman walk towards him as well. He didn’t need to come meet him. He had their table and their drinks ready. What was he doing?

When they met, they were in the middle of the cafe. Virgil shot him a confused look, opening his mouth to ask what the hell was happening.

Roman beat him to it, however.

“Roman,” he said. Virgil stopped, mouth clicking shut.

Then he smiled, shook his head.

Of course Roman was doing this. Dramatic as always. 

So Virgil looked back up, accepting his cue. “Virgil.”

“It seems we get to start again,” Roman said.

“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend again. That was nerve-wracking,” Virgil teased.

Roman grinned. “So I get to ask this time?”

“Does that mean we aren’t boyfriends anymore?” Virgil quirked an eyebrow.

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Virgil answered.

“Guess that solves that.”

“Guess it does.”

Agreeing silently, they moved over to their table, hand in hand.

This would be a great new start, if that was what it was.

But that would insinuate anything between them had ended in this first place.

“I’m not forgetting that time you almost died because of a little dust,” Virgil said.

“Oh, come on!” Roman exclaimed.

“I’m not going to forget anything, I don’t think,” Virgil said, lowering into the seat across from Roman. “There’s too much I’d like to remember.”

Roman squeezed his hand where he’d rested them on the table.

“Then how about you remember never to ghost me like that again,” he said, an evil grin stretching his face. Virgil’s mouth dropped open.

“You’ve got to stop hanging around Patton.”

Roman just chuckled. Virgil picked up his coffee and gulped it down. It burned his tongue and he smiled a bit at the feeling.

“It’s good to be alive.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “And  _ I’m  _ the cheesy one.”

Virgil ignored him, taking another sip. He stretched into the sunlight coming in from the windows, eyes tracing soulmarks so dense it was like an extra sleeve.

Maybe nothing had ended, but Virgil was certainly starting something new. He’d go to college to start, and find wherever that might take him. Wherever it might take _them_. He and Roman would figure it out together, the way it always should have been.

And the future was still a bit hazy, but, damn, at least they had one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels so good to be posting this after working on it these past few months. This is my fic for the Storytime! Big Bang event, which I am so glad I got to participate in. I’ve wanted to write a ghost AU for many years, and this was excellent encouragement to make it happen. 
> 
> In case anyone from the event sees this, thank you to the mods for making this happen, and thank you to all the writers and artists who made the wonderful works posted and to be posted this month! I look forward to seeing a lot of it now that I have more time to.
> 
> Thank you to @proxxima for that ghosting joke at the end. I'm still frustrated I hadn't even thought of that lol. So thanks for letting me use it, An! 
> 
> And, of course, thank you to @blank-ace, who made such wonderful art for this fic!! I've provided a link below with their art, and I highly recommend checking that out. Ace did an amazing job with it all, and it was a great time working with them through this event :D 
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you liked it! Have a great day everyone. 
> 
> Code: [Tumblr](https://codevassie.tumblr.com/private/625942178978529280/tumblr_qes2mrwOKW1xcgbbq) | [Playlist](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fplaylist%3Flist%3DPLsQ0Ho4hiaonsQaxl6NKJolMwUEPZk9Di&t=NzdlYTlhMDMzZGNlYzhhNjZjYWY5MjFlZGVmZjEzODFhMTYxOWY1ZCxiZmI5ZmJiZDM4YzYxNWEzMjI2MjlhYWQ3NDdiNTk1NjYzNmFhNWRl&ts=1597038030)  
> Ace: [Tumblr](https://blank-ace.tumblr.com/) | [Art](https://blank-ace.tumblr.com/post/626023118583005184/woop-its-that-time-of-the-year-again)


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